yanderslutt

[yanderslutt]

𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐢’𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐧.

last pt 13 of professor reader x yandere ! college student gojo satoru

read pt 1 ; read pt 2 ; read pt 3 ; read pt 4 ; pt 5 ; pt 6 ; pt 7 ; pt 8 ; pt 9 ; pt 10 ; pt 11 ; pt 12

a/n : I recommend reading all parts to get the whole story.

cw's: yandere behavior, manipulation, infidelity, obsessive thoughts, emotional coercion, sexual content, explicit language, obsession, emotional manipulation, possessive behavior, praise kink, delusional fantasies, yandere! gojo, infidelity themes, obsession, married!professor x student dynamic, slow-burn tension, possessive fantasies .

-

two years later, the both of you are in couples therapy. it’s not exactly the romantic milestone you once imagined, but here you are—sitting on an oversized beige couch, knees almost touching, while a middle-aged therapist named dr. watanabe adjusts her glasses and flips through her notes.

“so, gojo,” she says slowly, “can you explain why you think y/n still needs her phone tracked?”

he leans back, arms crossed, looking completely unbothered. “because i love her,” he says plainly, as if that’s the most obvious answer in the world. “and because the last time i didn’t track her, she almost got murdered. remember that, babe?” he turns to you with this smug, self-satisfied smirk, like he’s just dropped the ultimate mic.

you pinch the bridge of your nose. “you literally hacked into my location without telling me. twice.”

“three times,” he corrects, holding up a finger. “and the third time was really sweet. i sent you lunch when you didn’t even realize you were hungry.”

dr. watanabe scribbles something down. you’re pretty sure it’s either borderline unhealthy fixation or dangerously romantic, but she keeps a neutral face.

“gojo,” she tries again, “healthy relationships are built on trust.”

“oh, i trust her,” he interrupts. “i just don’t trust the rest of the planet. men are wolves. women too. everyone’s a wolf. i’m the only sheepdog in this situation.”

you choke back a laugh because the imagery is ridiculous, but he catches it and narrows his eyes. “don’t laugh at me. this is serious. i’m protecting what’s mine.”

the therapist exhales slowly, clearly debating her career choices. “and y/n, how does that make you feel?”

you glance at him, at his absurdly bright blue eyes staring like you hung the moon, and despite yourself, you crack a smile. “it’s… exhausting,” you admit, “but… sometimes kind of sweet.”

gojo grins wide, leaning closer. “see? progress.”

“that’s not—” you start, but he’s already reached over to hold your hand, thumb stroking over your knuckles like you’re the only thing tethering him to the room.

dr. watanabe sighs. “okay. maybe let’s try an exercise in boundaries next week.”

“boundaries,” gojo repeats, looking directly at you with a playful glint. “cute word. never heard of it.”

you groan, but you’re still holding his hand.

the drive home was filled with gojo patting himself on the back. “see? i think i really impressed dr. watanabe today,” he said, one hand on the wheel, the other gesturing like he was delivering a keynote speech. “i barely threatened anyone, i didn’t even bring up my plan for gps ankle bracelets, and i only glared at her once when she mentioned ‘space.’ that’s, like, character development, babe.”

you glanced at him, unimpressed. “you also called her pen ugly and said you’d replace it with one that ‘actually matched her outfit.’”

“compliment,” he countered, dead serious. “i was helping her. personal branding is important.”

by the time he pulled into the driveway, you still weren’t convinced. the mansion loomed ahead—three stories of clean white stone with tall windows that glinted in the late afternoon sun. perfectly trimmed hedges lined the front, and ivy curled up one corner like it had been placed there by a set designer. the driveway wound into a perfect circle around a marble fountain, the water catching the light so it sparkled.

gojo had insisted on buying it after saying, “if i can’t keep you in a cage, i’ll keep you in a castle,” which was somehow supposed to be romantic.

he parked, and before you could open the door, the front door burst open. “mommy!” two little girls with matching ponytails ran out, barreling toward you in a flurry of giggles and bare feet slapping against the stone. gojo reached over, unlocking your door like a chauffeur, and you stepped out just in time to be tackled by tiny arms.

“mommy has been very… i mean very mean to daddy,” he pouted dramatically from the driver’s side, one hand clutching his chest like a wounded hero.

“don’t listen to him,” you said, kissing the tops of their heads.

the sliding glass doors at the back of the house opened, and your two oldest boys emerged from the pool, hair dripping, towels slung over their shoulders.

“MOM! guess WHAT?” your eldest shouted, bounding toward you with water still running down his back.

you tilted your head suspiciously. “do i wanna know?”

“i got accepted to that fancy tech school!” he announced, chest puffed out with pride.

your eyes widened and you broke into a smile, clapping your hands together. “that’s amazing!” you said, pulling him into a hug before turning just enough to glare at gojo.

he immediately coughed, looking away and slipping his sunglasses back onto his face like he had nothing to do with it.

the house was loud that night—loud in the good way. the kitchen smelled like fresh pasta and garlic bread, music played low in the background, and gojo was pouring sparkling cider into champagne flutes for the kids like it was some royal banquet.

after two years of marriage without constant chaos breathing down your neck, he had finally talked you into “expanding the empire,” as he put it. the first try, of course, turned into two identical girls who were walking proof of their father’s genes—white hair, mischievous blue eyes, and smiles that could charm or terrify depending on the angle.

your eldest boys, now teenagers, took to their role as big brothers with a surprising amount of seriousness. they were glued to the twins at family events, blocking strangers from getting too close, stepping in whenever someone bent down to coo at them for too long.

hiromi was still in prison. you had made the choice early on to let the boys decide if they wanted any contact with him, and they were old enough now to understand the weight of that decision. even so, gojo had ensured there were strict rules—limited phone calls, heavily supervised visits, and absolutely no in-person contact without you there.

it wasn’t just about control. in gojo’s mind, it was about keeping what was his untouchable. and in his own obsessive way, he believed that was love... and protection.

the dining room was chaos, but the kind of chaos that made your chest ache in a good way.

you were trying to pass the salad bowl when one of the twins—mei—decided it was the perfect moment to sneak a breadstick from your plate. “mei, that’s mommy’s,” you warned, but she just grinned with her father’s exact smug expression and shoved the whole thing in her mouth.

“that’s my girl,” gojo said proudly, leaning back in his chair like he’d just witnessed a historic achievement.

“you’re encouraging her?” you stared at him.

he pointed his fork at you. “i’m supporting independent thinking. also, that was a clean steal. ten out of ten technique.”

your eldest son, ken groaned. “dad, you’re the reason they act like this.”

gojo gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. “me? i’m a pillar of discipline and order in this household.”

you almost choked on your water. “oh, please. the last time you tried to discipline them, they convinced you you were grounded.”

the other twin, mai, perked up. “and we made him clean our room!” she said proudly, kicking her legs under the table.

gojo nodded solemnly. “i did a great job, too. they had me folding their tiny socks like i was working studio again.”

ken smirked. “what’s next, dad? they’re gonna start charging you rent for living here?”

gojo grinned, winking at the girls. “oh, i’m already paying. they bill me in hugs and bedtime stories.”

the conversation shifted to ren’s big news, and he couldn’t keep the excitement out of his voice. “so, i got the acceptance letter today. that fancy tech school actually wants me.”

“of course they do,” you said, clapping your hands together. “you’re brilliant.” you gave gojo a pointed look, silently telling him to say something supportive.

he turned toward ken, adjusted his sunglasses—because of course he was wearing them indoors—and cleared his throat. “yep. couldn’t be prouder. and just so you know, if you invent some billionaire-level tech, you’re still not allowed to buy a bigger house than me.”

“dad!” ren groaned, but you could see the proud smile tugging at his lips.

as dinner went on, you caught yourself watching them—ren talking animatedly, the twins competing for gojo’s attention, and gojo himself sitting there with that soft, almost disbelieving smile.

two years ago, you never would have imagined this. back then, everything was blood and chaos and fear. the only sound in your head was your own heartbeat pounding as you prayed gojo would wake up, as you swore you’d never get caught in his obsession again.

but now? now the obsession had softened into something that still burned, but in a way that felt… safe. protected. home.

you felt a small tug at your sleeve. mai was holding up the last breadstick like an offering. “mommy, you can have the last one.”

your heart squeezed. “thanks, baby.” you bit into it, watching her beam.

gojo caught your eye across the table, tilting his head in that way that told you without words—i told you we’d make it.

you rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t stop the little smile that crept over your face. because, against all odds, he was right.

it was messy. it was loud. it was everything you once thought you’d never have again.

and it was yours.

the laughter started to mellow as everyone slowed down to pick at what was left on their plates. you were stacking dishes when your second eldest, kaito, quietly slipped out to the patio.

you noticed because, unlike his siblings, he didn’t often demand the spotlight. kaito had always been a little more serious, quieter—maybe too aware of everything the family had been through.

you followed him outside, finding him leaning against the railing, looking out over the pool. the moonlight reflected off the water, throwing little shimmers across his face.

“what’s going on in that head of yours?” you asked, resting your hand on the cool railing beside him.

he shrugged, not looking at you. “just thinking.”

you waited. with kaito your second youngest, you couldn’t push.

finally, he spoke. “mom… when dad.. i mean.. when hiromi—was still here… i used to think this family was going to fall apart.” his voice was steady, but there was a heaviness there that made your chest ache. “but… now… i see the twins, and ren going to school, and… you and gojo. it’s… different. good different.”

you felt your throat tighten. “kaito…”

he glanced at you, a little smirk tugging at his lips. “i’m just saying, i think you were right. about staying. about… letting him be in our lives. i didn’t think it would work. but… it did.”

you smiled faintly, brushing his hair back like you used to when he was small. “it worked because we all decided it would. together.”

“yeah,” he said softly, then after a pause, “and because gojo’s basically obsessed with you.”

you laughed, shaking your head. “don’t remind me.”

from inside, you could hear gojo yelling dramatically, “y/n! they’re ganging up on me about dessert! bring reinforcements!” followed by the twins’ squeals.

kaito rolled his eyes, but there was a hint of a smile. “better go save him.”

you glanced back at him, and for a moment, you just let yourself feel it—the peace, the safety, the full circle of it all.

“come on,” you said, nudging his shoulder. “let’s go back in before they start eating the whipped cream straight from the can.”

and together, you stepped back inside, the noise of your family wrapping around you like a warm, imperfect, perfect blanket.

the house was finally quiet, the kind of deep, velvety silence that only came when every kid was tucked away in bed and the chaos of the day had dissolved into the hum of the refrigerator and the faint ticking of the hallway clock.

you and gojo were curled up on the couch in your pajamas — you in one of his oversized shirts, him in plaid pants and a smug grin — each with a glass of wine in hand. the soft glow from the lamp cast lazy shadows across the room.

“remember,” he started, swirling his glass, “when you swore you’d never let me in your house again.. when you ran away?”

you laughed into your sip. “remember when you swore you weren’t insanely obsessed with me?”

he put a hand to his chest, mock-offended. “that’s different. i was in denial... now i embrace it”

you snorted. “denial? you orchestrated a borderline soap opera just to make sure i’d end up here with you.”

he grinned like you’d just complimented him. “and wasn’t it worth it?”

you rolled your eyes, but the truth was written all over your face. “maybe…”

you both fell into a comfortable silence, eyes drifting to the family photos lined on the mantle — the twins in their matching sundresses, the boys on their first day of school, the whole family piled together on the couch in a blurry, laughing mess.

gojo set his glass down, leaning back against the cushions. “you know…” he said, dragging out the words like he was warming up to something.

you glanced at him, eyebrow raised. “oh no. what’s that tone?”

he smirked, leaning closer. “why don’t we expand… by just one more?”

you stared at him, half amused, half horrified. “one more? gojo, we have five kids. five.”

“exactly,” he said with a shrug, “what’s one more? think about it — another tiny you running around, or better yet… another tiny me.” he wiggled his brows.

you shook your head, laughing. “you’re insane.”

he grinned wider. “no, i’m just picturing it. the chaos, the cuteness, the matching outfits—”

“the diapers, the screaming, the sleepless nights?” you countered.

“minor details,” he waved it off. “besides, it’d be fun trying.”

you rolled your eyes again, but when you looked at him — hair messy, eyes bright even in the dim light — you knew he wasn’t entirely joking.

“we’ll see,” you said, taking another slow sip of your wine.

and from the smug look on his face, you knew he’d take that as a yes.

you set your empty of wine on the coffee table, fully intending to stand and head upstairs, but before you could take a step, gojo’s long fingers wrapped around your wrist.

“where you going, sweetheart?” his voice was low, almost lazy, but his grip wasn’t.

“to bed,” you said, arching a brow. “where normal people sleep after a full day of parenting.”

his grin was slow, deliberate. “funny, ‘cause i wasn’t planning on sleeping yet.”

you shot him a look, but his hand was already sliding down your wrist, threading his fingers with yours as he tugged you toward him. you ended up straddling his lap, your knees sinking into the couch cushions.

“gojo—”

“shh,” he cut you off with a soft kiss, just a brush at first. “you said ‘we’ll see.’ i’ve decided that means yes.”

“that’s not what it means,” you argued, but your voice betrayed you — softer now, caught between annoyance and anticipation.

he smiled against your jaw, his lips trailing higher toward your ear. “you can say no later… if you can still talk.”

his hands slid under the hem of the shirt you were wearing — his shirt — fingertips grazing your hips like he was memorizing the feel of you all over again.

“two years,” he murmured, his mouth brushing your neck, “and i still can’t get enough. you think i can just let you walk upstairs without touching you? you’re out of your mind.”

you shivered, his tone that dangerous mix of worship and possession.

“gojo, you’re hooked on me like a bad habit,” you whispered, tilting your head as his lips grazed the curve of your throat.

“wrong,” he murmured, looking up at you with that unblinking, too-bright stare. “you’re the only habit i’ll never break.”

before you could respond, he leaned forward, scooping you up with infuriating ease and standing in one motion.

“gojo!”

“bedroom,” he said simply, already carrying you toward the stairs. “time to start working on ‘just one more.’”

he didn’t bother turning on the lights when he kicked the bedroom door shut behind him. the faint glow from the moon spilled through the curtains, silvering the room just enough to see the outline of his smirk as he set you down on the bed — slow, deliberate, like he wanted you to feel every inch of the way his hands left you.

you leaned back on your elbows, breathing unevenly, watching him shrug off his hoodie. he didn’t rush. gojo never rushed. he just stood there for a moment, staring like he could drink you in with his eyes alone.

“you’re still wearing my shirt,” he murmured.

“it’s comfortable,” you replied, feigning casual, though your pulse was anything but.

“mm.” his smile widened as he crawled up the bed toward you, caging you in with his arms. “and you’re mine when you wear it.”

his mouth was on yours before you could throw another retort, all heat and insistence, his kiss deep enough to make your head spin. his hand slid down your side, finding bare skin beneath the hem, thumb stroking in circles just to hear the way your breath caught.

“you sure you can handle this?” you teased against his lips, flicking your gaze toward the faint scar peeking above the collar of his shirt.

“sweetheart,” he chuckled low, pulling back just enough to look you in the eye, “i’d get shot again if it meant having you like this.”

his hands moved lower, tugging the shirt up and over your head, tossing it aside without looking. his gaze followed the path of his fingers as they traced your curves — reverent, greedy, possessive all at once.

“still think ‘one more’ is a bad idea?” he asked, voice dropping as he kissed a slow trail down your throat, nipping lightly before soothing it with his tongue.

you barely managed to whisper, “i think you’re impossible.”

“i think,” he murmured against your skin, “you love me like this.”

and then he was pushing you gently onto your back, settling between your legs, the weight of him grounding you as his hands roamed — hungry but careful, like he wanted every second to brand into memory.

“look at me,” he said, and when you did, his pupils were blown wide, a storm behind that bright blue. “i want you to remember who you belong to… even when we’re old and grey and this bed squeaks for the wrong reasons.”

you laughed breathlessly, but it broke into a gasp when his hips pressed against yours, his mouth finding yours again in a kiss that promised nothing about tonight would be quick, and everything about it would be his.

his lips trailed lower, dragging down your collarbone, his breath warm against your skin. every kiss was deliberate, like he was staking a claim.

“two years,” he murmured between kisses, “two years of you, this bed, our life… and i still can’t get enough. it’s disgusting, isn’t it?” his teeth grazed your shoulder before he bit, not hard enough to hurt — just enough to make you gasp.

your hands slid into his hair, tugging lightly. “you’re ridiculous.”

he smirked against your skin. “ridiculous for wanting to put another kid in you? maybe. but i want to watch you carry me again. i want to see you round and glowing and mine all over again.”

you felt your face heat. “you’re insane.”

“yeah,” he admitted, dragging your pajama shorts down slowly, letting his fingers brush your thighs in a way that made your stomach twist with heat. “but you married me, sweetheart. so what’s that make you?”

before you could answer, he was kissing the inside of your knee, then higher, higher, until his breath ghosted right where you needed it. his hands held your thighs open, thumbs stroking slow circles into your skin like he had all night.

“gojo…” you whispered, and he groaned low at the sound of his name on your lips.

“say it again.”

you did, breathier this time, and his mouth was on you — tongue moving with the kind of focus that made your toes curl, that had your hips twitching up before you could stop yourself.

he pulled back just enough to look at you, lips wet, eyes dark. “think you can give me one more?”

you swallowed hard, fingers gripping the sheets. “if you keep doing that, maybe two.”

his laugh was deep and sinful, vibrating through you as he went back to work, taking his time, drawing every sound from your mouth until you were trembling. when he finally crawled back up, his mouth met yours again, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

“turn over,” he whispered against your lips.

“bossy.”

“obsessed,” he corrected, pulling your hips back against him once you were on your knees. he pushed into you slow, inch by inch, groaning like it was the first time all over again.

“god, you feel so good..” he breathed, one hand sliding up your spine to fist gently in your hair, tugging your head back so he could kiss the side of your neck. “like you were made for me. like you’ve only ever been for me.”

you moaned at the stretch, at the heat, at the way he filled you and refused to move for a long, aching moment.

“say you’ll give me one more,” he murmured, rocking his hips just enough to make you gasp.

“gojo—”

“say it,” he ordered, his voice dipping lower, hips snapping forward harder now. “say you’ll let me keep you forever. say you’re mine.”

you met his thrusts, head spinning, words spilling before you could stop them. “i’m yours. i’ll always be yours.”

his groan was loud, ragged, like he’d been waiting to hear that all over again.

and that’s when he picked up the pace — deep, hard, dragging every sound he wanted from you, like he was engraving them into his memory.

his pace turned frantic, but not sloppy — every thrust was purposeful, deep, like he wanted to bruise the memory of him into you from the inside out. his grip on your hips tightened, thumbs digging into the soft curve there as his chest pressed to your back, his breath hot and ragged against your ear.

“you feel that?” he groaned, voice breaking with the effort it took to keep some control. “that’s me… giving you everything. giving you more.”

you moaned, your fingers twisting in the sheets, pushing back into him because it was never enough. his hand slipped between your thighs, finding you with a touch that was maddeningly perfect, working you in rhythm with the way he drove into you.

“god, you’re close,” he murmured, the smile in his voice wild and dangerous. “i can feel it. i can feel you trying to pull me in. begging me without even saying it.”

“gojo—” your voice cracked, your knees trembling.

“shhh,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your damp temple before snapping his hips harder, sharper. “let me take care of it. let me make you mine all over again.”

it was too much — the stretch, the pressure, the way his words wrapped around your mind like a chain. you came with a shuddering cry, your whole body going tight around him.

his answering groan was loud, filthy, unrestrained. “fuck, yes— just like that. hold me. don’t let go.”

he kept moving through it, chasing his own release, rutting into you with a desperation that bordered on unhinged.

“i’m gonna give it to you,” he panted, one arm snaking around your waist to pull you flush to him as he drove deeper. “gonna put it in you and it’s gonna stay. no more condoms, no more ‘what ifs.’ you’re gonna be full of me, princess.”

your head lolled back against his shoulder, his name spilling from your lips in broken, breathless pieces.

and then he was gone — groaning into your neck as he emptied himself inside you, thrusting through it with slow, heavy rolls of his hips until every last drop was buried deep.

he stayed there, chest heaving against your back, holding you in place like he couldn’t bear to let you go.

after a long moment, he chuckled low and dark in your ear. “mmm… you’ll see. give it a couple weeks, and we’ll be buying tiny onesies again.”

you rolled your eyes weakly, still trying to catch your breath. “you’re insane.”

he kissed your shoulder, still buried inside you, still not moving to pull away. “yeah. but you’re mine… and now, maybe, we’ve got one more.”

-

epilogue

she thinks i don’t notice. the way her hand keeps drifting to her stomach when she’s not thinking about it. the way she pauses in the kitchen, one palm flat against herself like she’s guarding a secret she hasn’t told me yet.

but i notice everything. i always have.

she’s curled on the couch now, in one of my old hoodies that swallows her whole, sipping tea while the twins crawl over her legs and the boys argue over something dumb in the other room. her hair’s messy, her cheeks flushed from the warmth of the fire.

and that glow… oh, i know that glow. it’s mine.

mine, mine, mine.

god, if she only knew how hard it is not to drag her upstairs right now, how i want to lay my hand over hers and tell her i already know what she’s hiding. that i can already picture it — another little one with her smile and my eyes, another tiny person to protect, to keep, to love so fiercely it scares everyone else.

one last baby, she’ll say. sure.

like i’ll ever stop at “last.”

she laughs at something one of the girls says, and it hits me like it always does — that crushing, maddening, perfect weight of knowing there’s no version of the world where i’m not right here. where she’s not mine.

i shift closer on the couch, pressing a kiss to her temple, letting my hand slide over her stomach. she freezes for half a second, then relaxes.

“we’ll talk about it later,” she murmurs, like she’s warning me.

i just smile against her hair. later, sooner… doesn’t matter.

because i’ve already won.

𝐟𝐢𝐧.

alrighty guys.. that wraps this up.. thank you so much for all the love, comments, and support while i was writing this. this story became something way bigger than i expected, and knowing you guys were here for every twist, every spicy scene, and every unhinged moment made it so much more special. i’m so grateful for everyone who read along, screamed with me, and fell in love with these characters the way i did. you guys made this worth finishing. 💙!!!

ps. imma do some hiromi damage control after this..

tag list ; taglist ; @loudsilence711 ; @qualitygiantshoepsychic ; @victoria1676 ; @doggggggg-blog2 ; @chewiebee ; @ihateexistence ; @coffeeluvr96 ; @darthasphodel ; @beereadzzz ; @rxeae ; @tsumoorin ; @taeikkkaaax ; @imakms ; @ashikothedog ; @antitopppppppppppp ; @rachelnicolee ; @sarabat85 ; @tharunnihaa ; @randomwritertr ; @zanzie ; @destheevirgo ; @dreamingofyou444 ; @metalfl ; @jjkysnk ; @gris3o

[yanderslutt]

𝐢 𝐚𝐦 𝐠𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫.

serial killer toji fushiguro x reader pt 2

summary ; toji fushiguro had a habit—one painted in blood and obsession. the women he loved never survived him, not once they failed to return the kind of devotion he craved. you were supposed to be next, just another pretty thing to ruin. but everything changed the moment you told him you were pregnant. now, instead of killing you, he keeps you—because you’re no longer just a woman. you’re the mother of his child.

previous part click here

-

toji stepped out of the car and into the thick pulse of bass that rattled the pavement. neon lights flashed from inside the club, painting the street in sickly pinks and greens. the line outside buzzed with energy—girls in crop tops clinging to football players, drunk laughter echoing off the walls.

he adjusted the cap low over his eyes.

fitted black tee, worn jeans, clean sneakers. he looked the part. college-aged. cut. probably part of someone’s team. he blended in. he knew how to blend in.

a couple girls near the bar gave him that look— up, down, linger. one even touched his arm, purring something about how she hadn’t seen him before.

he didn’t even turn his head.

his jaw tightened. because they weren’t you. they didn’t smile like you. didn’t speak with that soft, curious lilt. didn’t look at fruit in a grocery store like it held the answer to everything.

his eyes scanned the room. you weren’t here. of course you weren’t. but he was.

he pushed past groups of dancing bodies, ignoring the sweat-slicked chaos of bodies grinding on each other. the stink of beer and cheap cologne curled in his nose.

he spotted him by the back bar.

satoru gojo. frat prince. loud. cocky. already two drinks in, one girl pressed against his side.

toji's lip curled.

"you barely spend time with me because you’re always working." your voice played back in his head. soft. hurt. hopeful

and here he was. smiling like the world owed him a good time. one arm around the girl’s waist. the other hand already halfway up her skirt.

toji exhaled through his nose.

he pulled his phone from his pocket, stepping into a corner where the strobing lights wouldn’t catch his face. he opened the camera. zoomed in. tapped the screen once to focus.

click.

a photo. then another. then one of gojo whispering in the girl’s ear, her giggle obvious. his lips on her neck.

evidence. proof.

toji smirked. not out of victory. but because the next step was finally beginning.

you were going to see him for who he really was.

and when your world shattered— toji would be right there to hold the pieces.

“game on,” he whispered, tucking the phone back into his pocket, turning on his heel. now he just had to make sure you saw it too.

toji’s grin sharpened as the idea slid into place. quick. clean. perfect.

he scanned the crowd until he spotted him—a random football player, slumped against the bar, beer sloshing in his cup, words already slurring. the guy’s team shirt clung to his sweaty frame, hat tilted back like he was too far gone to care.

toji stepped up beside him. “how much would you charge me for some gear?”

the guy blinked at him, swaying a little. “gear?”

“you know,” toji said, nodding toward the college merch stand near the door. “hat, shirt… whatever makes me look like I’m part of the pack.”

the guy laughed, rolling his eyes. “aren’t you a little old for this, dude?”

toji tilted his head, chuckling low. “do you not want to make fucking money?”

the way he said it—flat, serious, like a warning—made the guy sober up just enough to fumble into his bag. he pulled out a spare hat and a t-shirt, shoving them toward toji. toji handed him cash without breaking eye contact.

“good man.”

he slipped into the bathroom, the smell of piss and cheap aftershave clinging to the air. in the mirror’s cracked reflection, he peeled off his own shirt, pulling on the bright team tee and adjusting the hat low.

now… he didn’t just blend in. he looked like he belonged.

when he stepped back out, the bass thudded in his chest, the floor vibrating under his sneakers. he made his way to the roped-off section where the team had claimed their corner—bottles on the table, girls perched on laps, bodies grinding to the beat.

he slid right in, laughing with a group of girls like he’d been there all night. one leaned against him, touching his arm. another tried to pull him toward the dance floor. he played along—just enough. hands loose, smile easy. every move screamed “just another frat boy.”

and then he saw him.

gojo.

slouched back in his seat, drunk to the point of glowing, grinning like an idiot while some bimbo ground against his lap. her hands were on his chest, her mouth all over his neck, her lipstick smeared against his skin.

gojo barely looked up when toji got closer, but when he did, recognition sparked. toji reached out, dapping him up like they were old friends.

“yo!” gojo slurred, grinning wide, one arm still firmly around the girl’s waist.

toji smirked back, leaning in just enough to be heard over the music. “hell of a night, huh?”

gojo laughed, tilting his head back as the girl bit his ear, his eyes half-lidded with booze and ego.

and toji thought— yeah. keep going. dig your own grave.

he was just here to make sure you got to see the shovel.

“dude! this party is so fucking lit! what’s your handle? let me tag you in this story,” toji said, his voice all easy charm, the kind of friendly warmth that made drunk men drop their guard.

he was pretending his ass off.

gojo grinned so wide you could see every perfect white tooth, rattling off his username without hesitation. easy. sloppy. he leaned in closer, eager to be seen. eager to be known.

perfect.

toji’s phone was already up, recording the scene—gojo’s arm slung over the bimbo, the way her mouth kept finding his neck, the way his hands were nowhere near innocent. toji framed the shot just right. the music. the lights. the clear-as-day betrayal.

post. story. it was live in seconds.

he slipped the phone into his pocket and faked a yawn, stretching like the night had been exhausting. “man, it was nice meeting you. enjoy the rest of your night with the girls.”

gojo smirked, barely paying attention, already lost in whatever her perfume and vodka-laced breath were doing to him.

toji turned, weaving through the crowd. and when he stepped out into the cool night air, the grin returned. not the friendly one. not the fake one.

the real one. sharp. knowing. lethal.

he pulled the cheap frat hat from his head, the sunglasses from his shirt collar, and tossed them into the street. a car rolled over them, flattening the disguise like it had never existed.

toji rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck, the sound sharp in the quiet.

“time to plan my next run-in,” he murmured, running a hand through his hair, the faintest hum of satisfaction in his chest.

because now he had evidence. now he had leverage. and soon, he’d have you.

that’s the thing about men like gojo—they make it so easy. and the thing about men like toji?

they know exactly how to turn easy… into inevitable.

the door clicked open just after 2 a.m., and you were still curled up on the couch, a blanket around your legs and the faint glow of the tv casting light over the empty room. your eyes were heavy, stinging from waiting up for him.

gojo walked in with that cocky smirk plastered on his face, like he hadn’t left you wondering if he was dead in a ditch somewhere.

as you stood, rubbing your eyes, his hands were on you instantly—grabbing, sliding over your hips, trying to pull you in.

you pushed him off, the sharp scent of alcohol and sweat hitting you like a wall. it made your stomach twist. “i-i was waiting for you all night. i was worried,” you stuttered, voice small.

he just chuckled, pushing you back until your spine hit the wall. “come on, y/n… let me hit,” he grinned, fingers already lifting your shirt.

you shook your head, stepping back—then froze. red lipstick. smeared along the side of his neck.

“w-who’s that?”

he glanced down at you, and for a moment his smirk faltered, before sliding back into place. “there were a lot of people at the club… some random girl’s makeup got on me.”

you stared at him like he’d just spat in your face. “are you fucking serious? you expect me to believe that bullshit? you were cheating on me, gojo!” you yelled, the frustration boiling over.

his eyes hardened. he grabbed your wrist, grip bruising. “come on. stop bitching. let me just bend you over instead.”

you scoffed, pulling against him. “no. you smell like shit. call your bimbo and ask her for some pussy.”

that’s when his head tilted—slow, dangerous. and without a word, he turned, grabbed the vase from the table, and hurled it.

it shattered against the wall inches from your head, shards scattering over the floor.

you yelped, flinching, but before you could move, he was on you again—both wrists pinned in his hands, his grip so tight it burned.

“g-gojo, you’re hurting me,” you grunted, trying to twist free.

he rolled his eyes like you were being dramatic, then shoved your wrists away with a sneer. “you bitch.”

the word hung in the air, ugly and heavy, as your chest rose and fell. gojo shoved you back with a force that rattled the breath out of your chest.

you caught yourself against the wall, exhaling sharply, your eyes burning—not from tears yet, but from the effort of keeping them back. your hands balled into fists, and you made yourself speak, your voice low and shaking.

“sleep in the living room,” you hissed, each word coated with venom you didn’t have the strength to fully deliver. “i don’t want to sleep with you tonight.”

you scoffed to fill the silence between you, but it only seemed to light something darker in his eyes.

in one stride he was on you, his hand wrapping around your neck, warm and suffocating, cutting off the little breath you had left. your eyes flew wide, panic surging up your throat.

“listen here, you useless bitch.” his voice was a low, guttural hiss, hot against your ear. “i pay the bills. i live here. you don’t tell me what i get to do in my own fucking apartment.”

your nails dug into his fingers instinctively, desperate for air, desperate for him to let go, the pads of your fingertips burning from the strain.

and then—he released you.

the sudden loss of pressure made you stumble forward, your knees hitting the floor hard enough to jolt pain up your legs. the carpet burned against your palms as you caught yourself, breath ragged, your throat throbbing with the echo of his grip.

he didn’t look back. didn’t apologize. just walked past you, his footsteps heavy, the door to the bedroom shutting with a finality that told you exactly how much you didn’t matter to him in that moment.

you stayed there for a beat, your body frozen in the position he left you in. and then, slowly, your fingers began to shake—violently at first, then enough to make the tears finally spill.

you dragged yourself up, each movement feeling heavier than the last, until you reached the couch. you sank into it, curling on your side, pulling the blanket over you like it might shield you from what just happened.

your face pressed into the cushion, your voice barely a whisper. “why… does love hurt… this much?”

the question dissolved into the fabric, unanswered, as the cold from the floor seemed to follow you, settling deep into your bones.

the sunlight spilling through the blinds was too bright, too warm for how hollow you felt. you barely registered the faint brush of lips on your cheek before the front door clicked shut.

gojo was already gone—off to work like nothing happened, like last night was just another Tuesday. no apologies, no words, not even a shadow of guilt.

you sat up slowly, pulling in a deep breath, closing your eyes as the ache in your throat pulsed with every swallow. “yeah… i’m checked out,” you muttered to yourself, voice flat. “this shit ain’t it.”

your feet touched the floor and carried you to the mirror before you could talk yourself out of it.

bruises were starting to bloom—faint but undeniable—ringing your wrists like shadowed cuffs, the shape of his grip painted into your skin. your neck was mottled too, the pale marks just beginning to surface, each one a reminder you hadn’t asked for.

you stared for a moment. then turned away.

in the bathroom, the shower steamed quickly, the hiss of water almost loud enough to drown out the thoughts clawing their way up. you stepped under, letting the heat bite at your skin, watching it turn pink under the spray. you washed slowly, methodically, as if you could scrub off the memories along with the sweat and steam.

when you emerged, hair damp and loose around your shoulders, you slipped into something comfortable—a soft sweater, loose joggers. armor of a different kind.

you opened your laptop, the light from the screen reflecting in your tired eyes. tabs multiplied quickly—local job boards, classifieds. typing, scrolling, skimming.

then you saw it. small local bakery hiring – part-time mornings, experience preferred.

your lips parted slightly. a bakery. fruit pies. tarts. it felt… familiar. safe.

you applied without hesitation. name, number, skills, send.

and then you closed the laptop and grabbed your bag. you needed air.

wealth wasn’t a problem—your parents’ money made sure of that—but comfort was. and you weren’t going to find it in that apartment.

the bell above the bodega door chimed as you stepped inside, cool air washing over you.

you glanced toward the display counter… and your chest loosened just a little. there it was—your favorite fruit cake, perfectly iced, the glaze catching the light like glass.

for the first time in days, something almost like warmth flickered in your chest.

you didn’t know that just a few blocks away, someone else knew exactly which cake you’d come here for.

you were halfway through paying for your breakfast sandwich and fruit cake when you turned, the small paper bag warm in your hands and there he was. “toji… it’s so interesting seeing you here.”

the smile you gave him was polite, but god, it still hit him like a truck. it always did. a twenty-minute walk just to maybe catch a glimpse of you was worth it. worth the sweat, worth the time, worth every step.

and now? here you were. smiling at him. willingly.

it made something coil tight and hot in his chest. something a little unhinged. something he didn’t bother naming.

“make that two,” he told the cook, nodding toward your order. a small indulgence. you’d think it was casual. but he’d eat whatever you ate. taste what you tasted. that was the point.

then, smoothly—because he’d been thinking about this since the fruit aisle—he tilted his head. “hey… this might be a little weird, and i hope i’m not crossing any boundaries, but do you mind if we exchange instagrams?”

you hesitated. just a moment. long enough for him to feel the pulse in the air shift.

and then your hand dipped into your bag, pulling out your phone. your sleeve lifted with the motion—and he saw them.

bruises. on your wrists. darkening. fresh enough to hurt, old enough to prove they weren’t from a clumsy bump.

his jaw clenched before he could stop it. oh. oh, no.

look at you. you try to hide it. try to play normal. you think if you smile enough, if you keep your voice steady, no one will see the cracks.

but i see you. and now i know.

you’re with him. you’re letting him touch you. hurt you. and he thinks he can get away with it.

no.

i am going to kill this motherfucker. not right now. not in front of you. but soon. quietly. cleanly.

so that when he’s gone, and you’re mine, you won’t even have to flinch when someone reaches for you again.

you’re still scrolling, pulling up your profile. he forces his voice even, casual. “so… what’s your instagram?”

because this is how it starts. connection. trust. and then—freedom.

you just don’t know yet who’s going to give it to you.

"here it is," you said softly, fingers brushing his screen as you typed in your handle and clicked the follow button. your smile was small, polite, but he memorized it—filed it away like every other detail about you.

the cook slid his sandwich across the counter, and toji handed over cash before you could even reach for your wallet.

"no-no, you don't need to do that… i got it," you protested, shaking your head.

he rolled his eyes, that easy smirk in place. "come on… my treat. i came here because of you. if you never mentioned it, i wouldn’t have found such a good breakfast spot."

you sighed, reluctant, but you let him pay. victory.

outside, the cool air carried the scent of coffee and warm bread. he adjusted the bag in his hand, glancing at you. "listen… the park’s a few minutes from here. if you’re comfortable, i’d love to share this with you."

you hesitated. just enough for him to wonder if you’d walk away. but then—something shifted behind your eyes.

me and gojo are done… the both of us checked out… feelings lost… who cares, you thought, though you didn’t say it.

you walked with him.

the park was quiet, the early light slanting through the trees, leaves trembling in the breeze. you found a bench, unwrapped the sandwiches, and for a while, it was just eating, talking—slowly peeling back the edges of who you were.

you were sweet. warmer than you realized. and every laugh, every glance at him felt like oxygen filling a space you didn’t know was starved.

"i went to this weird ass party the other day… some dude was like— all over these… girls. I am never going to a shitty frat party again."

you chuckled. "wait... no way... YOU were at a frat party?"

he pulled out his phone. "don't believe me? actually—here. look."

he handed it to you, the screen already lit up. a story post.

gojo. arm around a girl you didn’t know. her mouth on his neck. his smile lazy and drunk.

your chest tightened. the world dimmed at the edges. your intuition—right. exactly right.

he watched your face change, your lips part in the smallest gasp, your eyes sharpen like glass cutting against the light.

and inside him, the voice was already purring—

there it is. the crack. the moment she sees him for what he is.

you’ve been doubting yourself for weeks, haven’t you? wondering if you’re paranoid, if maybe you’re the problem. but no—you were right.

and who gave you that truth? me. not your friends. not your family. me.

you think you’re going to go home and fight with him. you think you’ll slam a door, maybe cry, maybe curse his name. but i know better.

you’ll remember who put the evidence in your hands. you’ll remember the bench, the breakfast, the way i listened when he never did.

and when it’s all over… you’ll come back here. to me.

-

tag list ; @tsumoorin ; @irenemoonly ; @metalfl ; @ chewiebee @darthasphodel ; @tharunnihaa ; @vivian-555 ; @maialawliet ; @grignardsreagent ; @tsumoorin ; @whatdoesthesenpai

comment 2 b tagged.

[yanderslutt]

𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞, 𝐲/𝐧. 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞. 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞 .... 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐠

pt 12 of professor reader x yandere ! college student gojo satoru

read pt 1 ; read pt 2 ; read pt 3 ; read pt 4 ; pt 5 ; pt 6 ; pt 7 ; pt 8 ; pt 9 ; pt 10 ; pt 11 ;

a/n : I recommend reading all parts to get the whole story.

cw's: yandere behavior, manipulation, infidelity, obsessive thoughts, emotional coercion, sexual content, explicit language, obsession, emotional manipulation, possessive behavior, praise kink, delusional fantasies, yandere! gojo, infidelity themes, obsession, married!professor x student dynamic, slow-burn tension, possessive fantasies .

ahhh.. last chapter? right?

-

y/n kissed her sons on their foreheads before helping them out of the car. her parents were waiting by the porch, concern already creasing her mother’s face. she didn’t say much.. just handed over the overnight bags and gave a quiet thank you. her heart was racing too fast to focus. too fast to explain.

she got the call twenty minutes ago.

gojo was awake.

but not just awake.. erratic. nurses said he was screaming. security was called. he’d torn out his IV. tried to get out of bed. he kept asking for her.

she sped through traffic, gripping the wheel so tight her knuckles turned white. the sky was gray, heavy with the threat of rain, but her mind was louder than the thunder.

“god, gojo,” she muttered under her breath. “now is not the time to show this obsession. please. not now.”

because she knew him.

knew how he loved.

it was never soft. never careful. it was fire. it was war. it was teeth bared and heart exposed. and he hadn’t seen her in weeks. he probably thought she left him again.

and if he thought that... she didn’t even want to imagine what state he was in.

the hospital came into view, tall and sterile against the cloudy skyline. she parked without looking, barely remembering to turn off the ignition as she slammed the door behind her.

she ran up the steps. one thing echoed in her mind as she rushed through the automatic doors.

nurses who had been frantically pacing now looked relieved. doctors exhaled. one of the guards actually stepped aside, muttering under his breath, “thank god.”

then you heard it—his voice. cracked. furious.

“don’t fucking touch me! i’ll kill you—i swear to god—i only want y/n! where is she?!”

you froze. your heart clenched. your hand instinctively moved to your stomach, trying to calm the nausea that had been living in your gut since the moment you got the call.

the head nurse nodded at you. “he’s been refusing treatment. only responds when we say your name.”

you took a breath.

then another.

and walked in.

his back was turned when you entered. the air was thick, humid with sweat and antiseptic and the frenzied stench of pain. his hospital gown hung loose, stained, and his long fingers were curled into trembling fists at his side.

he turned at the sound of your footsteps.

his eyes—god, those eyes—were hollowed by dark circles. wild. but as soon as they found yours, everything changed.

the rage dropped.

his shoulders collapsed.

he blinked once, and tears immediately started forming. “y/n,” he breathed. a broken thing. a plea wrapped in reverence.

then he ran to you—arms wide, desperate.

you didn’t brace yourself. you just took him in.

his arms wrapped around you, strong and tight, pulling you into his chest like he needed to prove you were real. like he would never let go. you felt the way his whole body trembled against yours.

“i-i thought you left me,” he whispered, voice cracking as the tears spilled down his face, wetting the skin of your neck.

your arms clung around him, your throat tightening.

“how could i leave you, gojo…”

you pulled back just enough to look at him, to cup his jaw, and his lips crashed into yours.

it was messy. needy. not romantic.. desperate.

and then..

a warmth.

you pulled back.

your shirt, soaked in red.

blood.

you looked down.

then back up at him.

his expression was calm. too calm. dazed, even. his breathing slowed. then... his knees buckled.

“gojo!”

you caught him—barely.

the room exploded.

“get the stretcher...now!”

“he’s hemorrhaging... he tore his stitches again!”

“now that she’s here, patch him up!”

you were on your knees, cradling his body against yours as the doctors rushed in. his eyes were still open, unfocused, but locked on you.

“don’t leave me,” he mouthed.

“i’m not going anywhere,” you whispered, brushing the wet hair off his forehead, choking back your sob. “i’m right here, baby. you’re safe.”

and this time, you were the one holding him together.

the room was quiet—eerily so.

the kind of silence that comes after chaos. after blood. after prayers whispered into hospital tile.

gojo lay there, bandaged and still, chest slowly rising and falling under the soft hum of machines. and you—your fingers wrapped tight around his hand, like if you let go, he’d disappear again. like he might vanish back into the hell you were barely climbing out of.

the nurses had handed you a clean white top earlier. the old one had been soaked through. blood and panic. you didn’t even remember changing. your mind had never left him.

they asked if you’d stay the night.

you said yes before they finished the sentence.

because of you, he was here.

and you couldn’t leave him again.

the moonlight bled through the slats of the blinds, streaking soft silver over the floor. the rest of the hospital had quieted down. only the beep of the monitor kept time with your heartbeat.

until—

his fingers twitched beneath your palm.

you flinched.

your head jerked up.

his eyes blinked open.

bluer than you remembered. tired, slow, but so unmistakably him.

when he looked over and smiled...god, you forgot how that smile undid you...it was like your lungs finally let you breathe.

you leaned in. without thinking.

your lips crashed against his.

it wasn’t gentle. it wasn’t sweet.

it was grief. it was relief. it was madness.

his hand, weak as it was, curled behind your neck and pulled you down harder into it. the monitor ticked faster.

you broke the kiss with a sob, a choked sound that came from the bottom of your chest. your forehead fell against his.

he sat up.. painfully, stiff, but determined.

“why are you crying,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. he reached up with shaking fingers, brushing your chin, then your trembling lip. his touch was so gentle, so misplaced for how violently he loved you.

you opened your mouth, and it all tumbled out.

“b-because i missed you,” you cried. “i thought you died, gojo. i—i didn’t know what would happen. you went there alone—to protect me—and you ended up getting hurt. i couldn’t even say goodbye, and when i found you, there was so much blood—”

your breath hitched, cracking open your ribs.

“gojo—i… i did something,” you whispered.

he blinked, expression still. watching.

“when hiromi came to the house… out of nowhere… i panicked. i hit him. i hurt him. i didn’t mean to—i mean i did, but i—”

your words broke into hyperventilation. your chest seized up. your hands gripped his shoulders like he was your anchor, like if you didn’t hold him, you’d collapse entirely.

gojo was silent.

too silent.

his eye twitched.

then he turned away from you slowly.

his hands covered his face.

you saw it—that slow, unnatural red creeping up his ears, down his neck.

his shoulders started to shake.

you didn’t know if it was laughter or rage.

you reached for him again, terrified. “gojo—”

“you…” his voice was muffled behind his palms.

“…you hit him?” he asked, slowly dragging his hands down, revealing his eyes...wild, glassy, high on obsession. “you hurt him for me?”

you nodded, eyes wide and glassy. “i—I had to. i didn’t know what else to do—”

gojo exhaled. deep. shaky.

and then he started laughing.

soft at first. then breathy. manic. his head fell back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling with tears pricking the corners of his eyes again.

he turned to face you—grin splitting his bruised, battered face.

“you hit him… for me,” he repeated. “you really do love me.”

his eyes dipped to your lips, then down lower...

then lower still.

his breath caught.

“…fuck,” he whispered. “baby… you’re crying and talking about murder and my fucking dick is so hard right now.”

“gojo—”

“no, no—don’t look at me like that,” he said, sitting up further, every wince in his body overridden by adrenaline. “i thought i was dreaming. when i woke up earlier and smelled you on me—i thought maybe i was still bleeding out, but it worked. it worked, y/n. you came back.”

his pupils were blown wide. feral.

“you came back. you’re mine again. finally.”

you stared at him, heart in your throat.

because somewhere deep down, in some fucked up twisted place in your soul.. you were starting to realize:

you were his just as much as he was yours... he was not the only sick on in this relationship.. because you are too.. and you were fine with that.

you barely had time to react before gojo grabbed your wrist and yanked you down into his chest.

his grip was weak—but his intent was anything but.

his fingers trembled as they wrapped around the back of your neck, pressing your forehead against his. his breath was ragged, hot against your skin, heavy with need. his eyes were wide, glassy—glowing like floodlights in the moon-splashed dark.

“g-gojo,” you whispered, heart pounding, hands on his chest like you could push him away. “we—we can’t do this. you’re still hooked up to a monitor. your stitches are—”

he groaned, rolling his eyes, but even that small movement made him wince.

“i don’t care,” he gritted, voice raw with desperation. “i don’t care about any of that.”

his fingers slipped into your hair, pulling you even closer.

“fuck—y/n, i want to fuck you��no, i need to make love to you. now. here. like this.”

his lip trembled, and his eyes fluttered shut for a second. his chest rose and fell beneath you, and it was erratic. you could feel the hard line of his arousal pressing against the thin blanket. despite everything—despite the blood, the pain, the wounds—he was burning.

burning for you.

“i was dreaming of you,” he whispered, voice shaking, like he might cry again. “while i was in that coma—fuck, i was dreaming of you. your voice. your skin. your laugh.”

he opened his eyes again.

and that look—that look.

it was hunger wrapped in worship, drenched in obsession.

“do you know what that does to a man?” he murmured. “to lie there—trapped in a body that doesn’t work—only able to see you in my head, but not touch you? not tell you i love you? i was screaming for you in there.”

your breath caught.

“please,” he whispered, begging now. “get on top of me. let me feel you. i don’t care if it hurts. i want it to hurt. i want to feel everything.”

his voice cracked, a broken sob punching out of him as he buried his face into your neck.

“i missed you,” he whimpered. “i missed you so fucking much, baby. i don’t want to waste a second.”

his lips brushed your collarbone, trembling. “please, y/n. please. just this once—don’t make me beg.”

your fingers dug into the bedsheets.

you knew it was insane.

you knew it wasn’t safe.

but when you looked down at him—blood-stained, broken, desperate and entirely yours—your body responded before your mind could stop it.

you straddled his hips slowly.

and his entire body shuddered beneath you.

“fuck… that’s it,” he whispered, tears spilling down the corners of his eyes. “you’re here. you’re mine. finally.”

his heart monitor began to spike.

but gojo didn’t care.

he had you.

and that was the only medicine he needed.

the room was dim, painted in sterile moonlight that slipped through the blinds. machines hummed quietly beside the bed. beep. beep. beep.

gojo satoru lay back, pale and bandaged, shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal the bloodstained gauze wrapped around his ribs. he looked like he should be resting. recovering.

but his cock was hard. flushed. twitching beneath you.

“you’re shaking,” he rasped, voice laced with amusement and something darker. “scared of hurting me?”

your thighs were braced on either side of his hips, trembling—not from fear, not really—but from the weight of what you were about to do. your fingers hovered between you, already slick from the heat pooling inside you.

“gojo…” you whispered, breath catching as you took hold of him, guiding him to your entrance. “you’re hooked up to a monitor. your stitches—”

“i said i don’t care,” he growled, eyes locked on yours. “i want you. now.”

your body obeyed before your brain could process the warning signs. you began to sink down on him—slowly, inch by inch, until he filled you, stretched you, split you in a way no one else ever had.

his eyes rolled back. the monitor beeped faster. beepbeep. beepbeep.

“fuck—” his breath hitched. “that’s it. take it. don’t stop. don’t fucking stop.”

you bottomed out, gasping, walls fluttering around him from the stretch and the rush of it all. the air was heavy with the scent of antiseptic and sin.

he reached up, grabbing your waist with trembling hands, knuckles white with effort. “ride me, baby. ruin me.”

you moved. grinding down. rocking your hips slowly.

his head fell back, sweat dampening his hairline, but his grip on you never faltered.

“you know what i thought about while i was under?” he panted, voice strained. “your pussy. wrapped around me like this. tight. warm. mine.”

you gasped, nails digging into his chest just above the bandages.

“every night,” he continued, thrusting up weakly beneath you, “i dreamed about this. not the pain. not the blood. you.”

your movements sped up, driven by something primal. wrong. addictive.

his eyes flew open again. “tell me you missed me.”

“i missed you,” you whimpered.

“tell me he could never fuck you like this.”

“he couldn’t. never.”

he groaned, low and guttural, head pressing back against the pillow like he was overwhelmed. and the monitor— beep-beep-beep-beep— screeched higher.

“ride me,” he gasped. “come on, baby. ride me like you’re mine. like you know i bled for this.”

you moaned louder, bouncing now, thighs burning, your pace relentless. the slap of skin and squeak of hospital sheets echoed through the sterile room.

his hand snaked around the back of your neck, dragging you down until your forehead pressed to his.

“come on,” he whispered, voice shaking. “come on, baby, i need to feel you come around me. i want you to break me.”

you did.

you shattered with a scream, body clenching hard, pulsing around him. and as you did, he came too, cock twitching deep inside you, heat flooding you in thick, possessive waves.

his body arched—

and the monitor flatlined. beeeeeeeeeeeeeep—

your heart dropped. your entire body went still.

“gojo?” you whispered.

no response.

“gojo—!”

he blinked.

the monitor resumed.

and then he smirked.

“…just kidding.”

you smacked his shoulder, still trembling, half-laughing, half-crying.

“you asshole.”

he laughed—weakly—but the joy in his voice was unmissable.

then, as your head rested on his shoulder, his hand stroked your back softly, voice barely a whisper:

“i’d let him shoot me again, y/n. over and over. if it means you’ll always come back to me like this.”

-

the end?? do yall want one more part? like a "2 years.. later.." i think it'll b cool. pero- no se.

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idk, what would yall like to see next? dms.. request they are as open.. as my legs r for all of yall.

[yanderslutt]

𝐦𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐞 𝐢 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐲𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟… 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞

serial killer toji fushiguro x reader pt 2

summary ; toji fushiguro had a habit—one painted in blood and obsession. the women he loved never survived him, not once they failed to return the kind of devotion he craved. you were supposed to be next, just another pretty thing to ruin. but everything changed the moment you told him you were pregnant. now, instead of killing you, he keeps you—because you’re no longer just a woman. you’re the mother of his child.

previous part : click here

-

the living room was too quiet. too still.

the mug trembled in your hands, ceramic tapping gently against your fingers as the coffee inside rippled. it had gone lukewarm hours ago, but you kept holding it like a tether. like if you let it go, you'd spiral.

it had been a week.

seven days since you stepped into that basement. since you saw the cage. since he almost slit your throat.. until you said the words that changed everything. “i’m pregnant.”

you hadn’t bled. hadn’t vomited. but somehow, it was real. it made it real.

what you didn’t expect was the silence that followed.

you hadn't talked about the cage. he hadn't either.

and that terrified you more than the knife ever did.

your mind had paced itself raw. was it worse that he was a killer? or that he still had pieces of them? keepsakes. relics. your own name added to that morbid archive of lovers who didn't make it out.

but you had. because of the baby. because of him.

you couldn't tell where the nausea came from anymore.. the pregnancy or the reality of loving a man who smiled while he killed.

the door creaked.

you didn't look up. you knew the weight of his steps now.

toji walked into the room, calm, relaxed, like any other boyfriend. any other morning. he looked at you, then at the cup in your hand.

and without a word, he reached down and took it.

you blinked. “wha—”

“coffee’s not good for the baby,” he said flatly, setting it aside.

your hands stayed in place, empty now, fingers still curled like they were holding something. but all they held was nothing.

just like your voice. just like your future.

toji sat next to you. not with you. next to you.

and you realized…. this was your life now.

a quiet cage with no bars. a killer with warm hands. and a child who would never know the difference.

you turned to him slowly, lips parted, voice barely a whisper.

“do you still… think about them?”

his gaze met yours, cold and calm. “only when you make me.”

and just like that you stopped speaking.

you sat still for a long time.

the taste of that last sip of coffee clung to your tongue like rust. your hands were still curled, empty now, twitching slightly from the absence of warmth.

he sat beside you. quiet. too quiet. the silence between you had teeth.

you turned toward him slow, unsure, like someone approaching a sleeping animal. and then, barely louder than a breath:

“who were they?”

his eyes didn’t move at first. he blinked, once. twice. then turned his head, lips pressed in a line.

“the women,” you clarified. “the ones in the boxes.” your voice cracked. “why did you do it, toji?”

he didn’t flinch.

instead, he sighed. a deep, measured exhale through his nose. like it exhausted him that you still didn’t understand.

“they weren’t them, y/n.” he looked at you like that should’ve been enough. like the answer was so simple.

you stared.

he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes tracking a small crack in the floor like it held the meaning of life.

"they didn’t see me. not really. they didn’t know how to love me properly. they thought they could leave. or lie. or… change me.”

he chuckled under his breath, like the thought itself was ridiculous. his fingers brushed over his jaw.

“so i kept pieces. not because i missed them.” he looked at you now, sharp. deliberate. “but because i needed to remind myself why they didn’t survive me.”

your breath hitched.

he tilted his head. eyes softer now. “you think the cage was for them? no, sweetheart. it was always for you. i just didn’t know it yet.”

you went cold.

“then why didn’t you destroy it?” you whispered, voice tight. “why did you keep their things.. those pieces.. like some kind of gift you wrapped for yourself?”

his smile returned. slow. knowing. that goddamn joe goldberg smile. like he was the sane one in a world of monsters.

“because love, real love, is a study. a ritual. a timeline. and to understand what went wrong..” he leaned in, brushing your knee, “you have to keep the data. you learn from it. you evolve.”

your stomach churned.

“and you,” he whispered, voice like silk stretched over a blade, “you’re the only one who’s ever made me want to evolve.”

he reached for your hand, slowly intertwining his fingers with yours.

“that’s why you’ll live.”

and for a moment.. just one trembling, sick moment, you almost believed him.

his grip on your hand lingered too long. too tight. too intimate.

his thumb brushed your knuckles like a lover’s might, if that lover hadn’t also confessed to cataloguing the corpses of women who disappointed him.

then his eyes darkened.

“you’re awfully hung up on them, y’know,” he said, tone shifting. smug. cruel. he leaned back just slightly, watching your expression twist.

“why do you care so much, hm?” he asked, voice calm, like a man asking about the weather. “they’re dead, y/n. i killed them.”

your mouth parted, air hitching, but no words came.

his smile widened. there it was. the unraveling. he loved it.

“wait,” he said slowly, mock concern in his voice. “are you… jealous?” his head tilted. “jealous that i kept pieces of them? little gifts, tucked away like memories?”

you blinked, startled. “No,” you said quickly, breathless, horrified by the implication. “of course not”

but it was too late. his eyes lit up like you’d just told him your deepest secret.

“huh,” he muttered, leaning in.

your back hit the couch cushions with a soft thud as he moved over you, body slow and deliberate, like a shadow pouring across your skin.

he hovered above you now. hands on either side of your hips. knees pressing against yours.

his face was inches from yours when he said it.. low, deliberate, sinister.

"we’re soulmates, don’t you get it?” he whispered, mimicking your exact cadence from that night. "you kill the ones who can’t love you right.. and i already do. so why stop now?"

you froze. because hearing your own words on his lips felt like swallowing glass. sharp. cutting. irreversible.

you had said that. you meant it. and now he was using it as the lock on your own cage.

“you said it,” he whispered, lips nearly brushing yours. “you gave yourself to me.”

his hand slid down, caressing your waist possessively.

“so don’t start taking it back now, baby. not when i finally have something worth keeping alive.”

you didn’t breathe.

because somewhere deep inside you… you weren’t sure if you wanted to.

—

the beginning of everything …

you didn’t know when his obsession started. maybe it was instant. maybe it simmered under the surface the moment your fingers grazed the edge of a ripe plum.

the grocery store was quiet that day. soft fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, the air cool and smelling faintly of citrus and cleaner. you were elbow-deep in the fruit aisle, brows furrowed, gently squeezing the sides of pears and peaches. you always had a knack for baking pies, tarts, turnovers. it was your thing. your peace.

his eyes were already on you.

you didn’t see him at first, didn’t feel the weight of his gaze tracking the way your lips pressed together when a fruit wasn’t ripe enough, or how you tilted your head just slightly as you moved on to the bananas.

but he noticed everything.

and he just knew.

he had to speak to you.

“farmers markets have better produce than here.”

you looked up, surprised. and then..

god, he was handsome.

tall. dark. rugged. a face cut from sharp angles and tired eyes, but with a mouth that seemed born to smirk.

you smiled, softly, lips curving as you reached for a bunch of bananas. “the ones near me are too far away, and I hate traveling.”

he chuckled at your response. it was warm. easy. practiced.

“are you close to here? or do you live far?”

you glanced at him again, studying the lines of his face. the scar along his lip. “i live down the street,” you said. “i have a bodega near me, but they’re always out of my favorite fruit for my dishes.”

his smile deepened. “well, if you ever needed a ride… or maybe a partner to head down to that farmers market… i’ve got a pretty open schedule.”

smooth. the words rolled off his tongue like honey.

you let out a soft laugh, caught off guard. “i’m sorry, i-i have a boyfriend.”

his smile faltered. barely.

but enough for you to notice.

“but… if i ever have any free time… and he’s… open to it…” you trailed off. “i don’t mind.”

he tilted his head.

“so you need to ask your boyfriend permission to go out?”

you stiffened. “n-no—i…”

“i’m joking,” he said, the grin returning. “my name’s toji. and yours?”

“y/n,” you replied. “i’m sorry… i didn’t mean to come off like that.”

“you didn’t,” he said easily. “i understand. boundaries. i hope to see you again, y/n.”

you nodded, heart still fluttering from the encounter as he walked away.

you didn’t see the way he looked back at you.

you didn’t notice the shift in his posture.

you didn’t hear the words he muttered to himself once he turned the corner—

“she’s perfect.”

and just like that…

you were his.

you just didn’t know it yet.

the front door creaked open as you stepped inside, balancing grocery bags in your arms. the smell of old takeout and body spray lingered in the air. gojo sat on the couch like a king in his throne—legs sprawled, tv playing some game show he wasn’t really watching, a bowl of chips resting on his lap.

he glanced over when he heard you.

“hey, baby,” he grinned, lips brushing against yours in a lazy kiss as you passed. “what’s for dinner?”

you gave a tired smile. “the usual.”

he nodded, grabbing the bags from your hands and tossing them onto the counter without much care. chips crunched between his fingers as he went back to munching.

“so,” he started, eyes still on the tv. “the guys… they wanted to go out tonight.”

you paused mid-step.

a soft frown tugged at your lips.

“but… it’s movie night,” you said, almost like a reminder. “we barely spend time together anymore because you’re always working.”

he shrugged.

“well, you’re not working,” he shot back without looking at you. “i pay for everything here… so i should be able to go out with my friends when they ask.”

you swallowed hard, turning back to the groceries, carefully pulling each item from the bag like your hands might shatter them.

gojo could be charming. hilarious. fun.

but he could also be scary.

especially when he drank.

“but…” your voice faltered. “you get really… mean when you drink.”

his head turned sharply. you regretted speaking the moment his eyes met yours.

“babe, you’re so sensitive,” he said with a fake laugh. “i only did that once. and i apologized, didn’t i?”

you didn’t answer right away.

instead, you stared down at the fruit you picked for a tart. the bananas looked bruised now.

“that doesn’t mean you won’t do it again,” you whispered.

and just like that, the mood shifted.

his smile vanished.

he scoffed under his breath, standing abruptly.

“oh,” he snapped. “so that’s how you feel.”

you stayed quiet, bracing for the blow.

not physical..not yet-but something sharper. something cold.

he stormed down the hallway, slamming the bedroom door shut behind him.

a beat passed.

then his voice rang out, muffled but clear.

“i’m leaving whether you like it or not.”

you stared at the counter.

your heart was in your throat.

and the only thing you could think about…

was how kind that stranger was in the fruit aisle.

-

toji's pov :

“hello… you. or should i say, y/n?”

toji’s voice was a ghost across the wind, barely audible as he stood across the street, hidden in the shadow of a flickering streetlamp. his eyes tracked your every movement as you entered your apartment building, careful, soft steps, a grocery bag hugged to your chest like comfort.

he adjusted his baseball cap lower over his eyes, the brim casting a shadow over the twisted grin curling at his lips.

he pulled out his phone, fingers steady, quick. notes app. new entry. ‘little home apartment complex – third floor, east-facing windows. key code: four digits, quick entry. no deadbolt.’

his eyes trailed up the building’s structure, counting steps, memorizing layout. then he looked down the block.

the bodega. the one you mentioned so casually, so innocently, in the middle of that fruit aisle like it was nothing. but to him, it was everything.

he walked by it, slow and steady, pausing only to observe. ‘bodega near apartment. she shops here when store runs out. possible route. time window: late mornings.’

he even wrote down the brand of bananas you bought. because details mattered.

your voice echoed in his head now. the way your lips curled when you talked. how your eyes darted when you mentioned your boyfriend.

he didn’t miss that. not at all. boyfriend = weak spot. filed away.

and just like that- with the same quiet breath he used to study a kill— toji closed the app, slid the phone into his pocket, and turned the corner. a new obsession had bloomed. not wild. not fleeting.

you. you were his now. you just didn’t know it yet. but oh… you would.

toji’s apartment was dark. cold. a stark contrast to yours—where the air smelled like sugar and overripe fruit.

he slammed the door shut behind him with a quiet grunt, dropping his bag to the floor and pulling his shirt off in one fluid motion. the fabric hit the tile, forgotten. his muscles flexed as he rolled his neck, stepping toward the pull-up bar mounted on the doorway of his bedroom.

gripping it tight, he let out a low exhale, teeth gritting. he needed to get it out of his system. the heat that had pooled in his chest since he watched you walk away. since you smiled. since you said you had a boyfriend like it was supposed to mean something.

“one…” he pulled. “two…” the tension in his shoulders burned, but it wasn’t enough. “three… four… that’s right…” “five-”

“shit.”

he let go, dropping to the floor with a low thud. you were in his head. your laugh. your voice. your fucking smile.

he wiped the sweat from his brow, walking toward his desk, fingers already twitching for the keyboard. he opened his laptop, heart rate kicking up.

“i wonder if she has an instagram,” he muttered.

he typed your name into the search bar...nothing. “c’mon…” he hissed, tongue pressed to his cheek. “maybe it’s… y/nxxx? no… maybe y/n2? fuck--”

he clicked to facebook. boom.

there you were. your name. your face. a pretty little profile picture. no posts, no timeline photos… just that one picture.

smiling.

mocking.

teasing.

he leaned in, eyes flicking across the screen. your smile was soft. genuine. the kind people don’t just give to anyone.

“shit,” he whispered. he needed more.

he clicked back to instagram, typing your full name in again, slower this time... intentional.

and then.. there you were.

a public account.

his breath caught. he didn’t even realize he was grinning.

“there you are…”

he clicked. opened your profile. scrolling through your posts like flipping through a sacred text. mirror selfies. cake photos. a blurry one with your boyfriend’s arm half-cut from frame.

toji’s eyes narrowed. he clicked the post. he wasn’t even in focus. laughable. you deserved better than some half-assed frat boy who didn’t even know how to take a decent picture.

“he doesn’t even know what he has,” he muttered. “but i do.”

toji double-clicked the picture without hesitation. the one of you and your boyfriend. it was taken in a dark bar, a lazy snapshot with bad lighting and worse framing. your smile was dimmer in this one, like you weren’t sure you wanted to be in the photo at all. gojo’s arm was around your shoulder, but he wasn’t looking at the camera. he wasn’t even looking at you.

toji clicked his profile. figures.

frat boy. party pics. solo gym mirror selfies. videos of him chugging liquor straight from the bottle like it was a sport.

“christ,” toji scoffed, lips curling. “he just looks like his dick is small.”

he scrolled through the highlights: one was labeled ‘saturdays are for the boys’. another was just called ‘sluts 🥵’.

classy.

he tapped on gojo’s current story, bored..until the screen filled with a bright neon flyer.

DJ Night – Kasa Club – hosted by the Fuji U football team. drinks. dancers. dark corners.

toji grinned.

“there it is,” he whispered. the opportunity. the crack in the wall.

he chuckled under his breath, a low rumble that faded into a sigh. “how much do you wanna bet… he cheats on her at this event?”

he tilted his head, the glow of the phone reflecting in his eyes as he studied himself in the screen. mussed hair. lean muscle. a scarred jawline. his smirk looked dangerous even in digital form.

“and if he does…” his voice dropped, gravel soft. “maybe i can finally treat myself… see what she tastes like.”

he set the phone down, the plan solidifying in his mind like the click of a loaded gun.

step one: show you who your boyfriend really is. step two: be there to pick up the pieces. step three?

well… that part was just for him.

he closed his laptop, rising from his chair with a stretch and a satisfied grunt. he peeled off what remained of his clothes, heading for the shower, steam already fogging the mirror as he turned the water on.

but before he stepped in, he laid out his outfit. black shirt. fitted. dark jeans. a jacket sharp enough to slice open whatever image you had left of gojo being safe.

“time to do some homewrecking,” he muttered, smirking into the mirror.

and this time, he wasn’t doing it for fun. he was doing it for you.

-

comment 2 be tagged

tag list ; @tsumoorin ; @irenemoonly ; @metalfl ; @ chewiebee

click here for the next part

[yanderslutt]

[yanderslutt]

𝐈-𝐈'𝐦 𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐠𝐧𝐚𝐧𝐭!

serial killer toji fushiguro x reader

summary ; toji fushiguro had a habit—one painted in blood and obsession. the women he loved never survived him, not once they failed to return the kind of devotion he craved. you were supposed to be next, just another pretty thing to ruin. but everything changed the moment you told him you were pregnant. now, instead of killing you, he keeps you—because you’re no longer just a woman. you’re the mother of his child.

cws; yandere themes, emotional manipulation, implied past violence, obsessive behavior, implied murder, threat with a weapon, intense psychological tension, pregnancy used as a survival tactic, toxic romance, disturbing content, obsession, mentions of previous victims

-

the basement was colder than you remembered.

dust clung to the walls like secrets, and the lightbulb above flickered as if it, too, was nervous about what you were about to find. you hadn’t meant to snoop. really, you hadn’t. you were just looking for the old heater, something to distract yourself while toji was out grabbing ingredients for dinner.

but then you found it.

a cage.

not a small one. not a dog crate. no. this was big—human-sized. welded steel. thick bars. locked shut. inside, there was a worn mattress on the floor, water bottles stacked neatly in the corner, a pile of books, and a single folded blanket.

your breath caught in your throat. your fingers trembled around the edge of the stairwell banister. what the hell was this?

your knees felt weak as you descended the last step, heart pounding in your ears like war drums. the cage was empty. but that didn’t make it better. if anything, it was worse. because someone had been in there. someone had slept on that mattress. someone had lived in that space. and now they were gone.

your mind ran in circles, tying itself in knots of fear and confusion. what was this for? why did toji have it?

you stared through the bars, suddenly aware of how quiet the house was. he said he was just running to the store. he said he’d be quick.

your hands shook harder.

god, what if he came back now?

what if you weren’t supposed to see this?

you shouldn’t have opened the cage. but curiosity is louder than fear, isn’t it?

the metal door creaked as you stepped inside—slow, hesitant, like walking into your own grave. the air was still. still and cold. sterile, almost. like it had been sealed off from time. from reality. from you.

your fingers hovered over the shelf before you touched it. books stacked neatly. a hairbrush. your hairbrush. a used lipstick—the one you threw away weeks ago. a worn hoodie that still smelled like you. and then—your breath hitched— your underwear.

folded.

organized.

catalogued like trophies in a museum of madness. some lacy, some plain. all yours.

your stomach twisted.

then your eyes caught the corner of the shelf. a box.

inside, tampons. used wrappers. and beside it—polaroids. of you. sleeping. eating. dressing. undressing.

snapshots of a life you didn’t know was being watched.

you blinked. twice. your hands started to sweat, palms slick as your throat closed in on itself. your own face stared back at you from the photos—frozen in time, unaware. exposed.

you took a step back. then another. but the cage didn’t feel empty anymore.

it felt like it was waiting.

you gulped hard, heart crawling up your throat, pounding like a warning siren as your mind screamed the one question you didn’t want to ask—

how long had he been watching you? and worse… what was he waiting for?

you moved deeper into the cage.

your breath was thin, like the air didn’t want to fill your lungs anymore. everything around you felt still—too still—like the cage was holding its breath right along with you.

then you saw them.

small boxes. neatly stacked on another shelf, labeled in faded marker. names. all women’s names.

mika. haruka. emi. rena. saya.

your fingers hovered over the lid of the first box—shaking, cold, unbelieving. you opened it.

a sick feeling bloomed in your chest.

underwear. a dried-out lipstick. a bracelet. a photo.

just like yours.

you opened another. then another. same items. same patterns.

but then—yours. your box sat at the bottom of the stack. unmarked. but you knew it was yours. you felt it.

you opened it, and your stomach twisted violently. all the same things—your scent, your face, your intimacy—stolen and stored. but this box had something else.

fingernails.

your breath hitched. not yours. you hadn’t noticed any missing. they were… hers. theirs.

each box had a small ziplock bag tucked underneath the keepsakes. clippings. real. yellowed. cracked. rotting.

a whisper left your lips before you could stop it. hoarse. broken.

“he… he killed them…”

the room spun. the shelves blurred. the cage suddenly didn’t feel like a discovery.

it felt like a warning.

and it was already too late. because the front door had just closed upstairs.

“y/n?”

his voice echoed down the stairwell like a shotgun blast. calm. steady. casual—as if nothing in the world was wrong. as if you hadn’t just uncovered a graveyard made of lace, lipstick, and fingernails.

your eyes widened. your body froze.

“what do i do,” you whispered to yourself, breath trembling, legs refusing to move. “what do i do, what do i do—”

you paced in a frantic circle, hands tangling in your hair, chest rising and falling like you were drowning above ground. but then you heard it.

footsteps. heavy. slow. descending.

he was coming.

you lunged out of the cage, nearly tripping as you scrambled back, heart punching your ribs like it wanted to escape before you could. the second his face appeared at the bottom of the stairs, your blood turned cold.

he was carrying a bag of groceries. smiling.

like you hadn’t just unearthed hell.

“you’re a monster, toji.” the words cut your throat coming out, but you said them anyway. your hands balled into fists to stop the trembling.

he sighed. not angry. not surprised. just… annoyed.

“you weren’t supposed to come down here, y/n.” his tone was parental. disappointed. like you’d opened a gift early.

you backed up until your spine hit the wall, and still, he stepped forward. no shame. no guilt.

and then— he saw it.

your underwear. on the floor of the cage.

he paused. smiled.

“you went through everything, huh?” he murmured, walking into the cage like it was a temple. he picked up the fabric, twirling it around his fingers.

you didn’t think. you just moved. ran to the door. slammed it shut. click. locked.

his head lifted slowly. and he grinned. like you’d done exactly what he wanted.

“good girl,” he whispered, eyes gleaming through the bars. “i was starting to wonder if you had it in you.”

your stomach dropped.

because now he wasn’t moving. he just stood there. smiling. like a man watching his favorite movie play out.

“why are you smiling?” you spat, voice cracking as panic surged in your chest. “you’re locked in, you sick bastard.”

he cocked his head. then tapped the shelf behind him. your box.

“because,” he said lowly, “now it’s your turn.”

he held up the bag of groceries. and from inside— he pulled out a pair of pliers.

“your fingernails are next, sweetheart.”

you shook your head. over and over again, as if the motion could unmake everything. as if denial was a shield strong enough to block the truth.

your body trembled violently, eyes locked on the man inside the cage. not a monster now—no, that would’ve been easier.

he looked like a lost puppy. tilting his head. licking his lips. pleading with his silence. but it was a trick. it was always a trick.

“y/n,” he said softly, voice warm and familiar. your name, like a lullaby. “baby… you’re scared. i get it. you saw things you weren’t ready for.” his hand touched the bars. slow. gentle. like he hadn’t just promised to take your fingernails.

you took a step back. your vision blurred with tears. “stop,” you whispered, voice cracking. “just—stop talking.”

he smiled again. not wide. not manic. loving. like a father rocking a child. like a man stroking the hair of his favorite girl.

“i would’ve told you everything. eventually. i was going to. but i needed you to love me first. truly love me.” his gaze burned through the bars like fire through paper. “and you do. don’t you, sweetheart? that’s why you’re crying. because you feel it too.”

your knees buckled slightly. because he wasn’t wrong.

you loved him. god help you—you loved him.

through the charm. through the nights he held you close. through the way he whispered dreams against your skin like they were sacred. but now, standing here— all of it was rotting.

what is love, when it’s laced with obsession? with violence? with death?

you couldn’t do this. you weren’t strong enough. you weren’t your mother.

you weren’t going to fight this war alone and survive it. not like she had tried. not like she failed.

so you did the only thing your body would let you do.

you took a deep breath. stepped forward. and—click—unlocked the cage.

he didn’t move at first. just stared. and then he stepped out slowly, towering, smiling.

his fingers brushed your cheek. you flinched.

“there’s my girl,” he whispered.

and just like that, you sealed your fate.

the cage door creaked open behind you.

he didn’t move. neither did you.

just… stood there. staring. breathing the same air. surrounded by the ghosts of women who came before.

your eyes were glassy, lips trembling as you stepped inside—one foot, then the other, like walking into a church built on bones. your hands shook at your sides, but your chest… it was quiet. finally.

and that scared you more than anything.

“is it bad…” you choked, voice thick with a sob, “that i don’t even care?”

he blinked. didn’t speak. didn’t need to.

“i should hate you,” you whispered, stepping closer, tears spilling down your cheeks. “i should run. i should scream—but i can’t.”

your hands touched your chest, your stomach, your lips. you were feeling too much and nothing at all.

“you see me,” you breathed. “god, no one’s ever seen me like you do. not even my mom. not even—” your voice cracked. “you make me feel wanted. not just looked at. wanted. like i’m something precious. something made for you.”

he tilted his head. just slightly.

your lip quivered as your eyes snapped up, manic with grief and need.

“maybe we’re just sick,” you whispered. “maybe that’s what this is—maybe it’s madness, maybe it’s trauma, maybe i’m just broken, but so what? so what, toji?”

your voice got louder. wilder.

“i’d rather be crazy with you than sane and alone. i’d rather bleed with you, cry with you, die with you, than live a boring fucking life without meaning. without you.”

you laughed. soft. unhinged. “we’re soulmates, don’t you get it? you kill the ones who can’t love you right—and i already do. so why stop now?”

he stepped forward. you didn’t flinch. you opened your arms.

“i’m yours,” you whispered. “do it. break me. love me. ruin me. i’ll still crawl back to you.”

his fingers reached for your jaw. tilted your chin. eyes dark.

and he smiled. slow. wicked. "my perfect girl."

your eyes flicked to the reflection in the glass. not his face. not his smile.

the blade.

gleaming behind you in the faint glow of the overhead light. your breath hitched— too late.

shhhk. steel left leather.

you felt it before you saw it—cold air shift, the press of danger humming near your throat. he was behind you now. toji. the man who just smiled when you swore you were his soulmate—now holding a knife to your neck like it was foreplay.

you gasped, eyes wild, chest heaving as he angled the blade with terrifying ease.

"t-toji—please—"

he said nothing. just pressed the blade closer, eyes unreadable.

you saw it in him then. not love. not madness.

calm.

the same calm he probably had for all the others. the ones whose boxes now lined the shelves.

"i’m pregnant!"

the words exploded from your throat like a gunshot, desperate, feral, final.

everything froze.

his hand stiffened. the knife stalled—mere millimeters from your skin.

he blinked once. twice.

“…what?” his voice was so quiet it made the silence louder.

you turned slowly, tears streaming down your cheeks, chest rising and falling like a war drum.

“i’m pregnant, toji,” you whispered, voice trembling. “with your child.”

he stared. and for the first time—you saw something shift. not softness. not rage.

something older. something deeper.

he lowered the knife. his fingers brushed your stomach, reverent and possessive.

then he smiled.

“mine,” he whispered. “you’re mine now.”

--

Next Part

[yanderslutt]

“𝐀𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧.”

pt 11 of professor reader x yandere ! college student gojo satoru

read pt 1 ; read pt 2 ; read pt 3 ; read pt 4 ; pt 5 ; pt 6 ; pt 7 ; pt 8 ; pt 9 ; pt 10

a/n : I recommend reading all parts to get the whole story.

cw's: yandere behavior, manipulation, infidelity, obsessive thoughts, emotional coercion, sexual content, explicit language, obsession, emotional manipulation, possessive behavior, praise kink, delusional fantasies, yandere! gojo, infidelity themes, obsession, married!professor x student dynamic, slow-burn tension, possessive fantasies .

-

The hospital smelled like bleach, death, and cold metal. But none of that could overpower the scent of blood drying on your skin—his blood.

You were pacing again, fingers digging into your palms, nails carving crescent moons into your flesh. The sterile waiting room was too bright. Too quiet. Every second was an eternity. Five hours had passed.

Five hours of whispered prayers and worst-case scenarios.

Geto sat slouched in the corner, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled beneath his mouth. He hadn’t spoken in an hour. But his eyes—they never stopped watching you. Waiting.

And then—

“Y/N L/N?”

You shot up so fast the chair scraped back with a screech. A doctor stood in the doorway, pale blue scrubs streaked with something dark. His eyes looked tired. But kind.

“Yes—yes, I’m here,” you rushed forward, voice breathless.

“Relationship to the patient?”

You didn’t hesitate.

“I-I’m his wife.”

Your voice cracked mid-sentence, but the words left your mouth like instinct. Like truth. Geto didn’t flinch. He stepped beside you, cool and unbothered.

“I’m his brother,” he added with a tight smile.

The doctor glanced between you both, then gave a small nod.

“He made it through surgery. He lost a lot of blood. The bullets missed anything vital, but barely. He’s in a coma. His vitals are stable, but it’ll take time. He needs rest.”

Your heart clenched so tightly it hurt.

A coma.

You wanted to scream. To cry. To beg him to wake up. But all you could do was whisper—

“Can I see him?”

The doctor nodded.

“Just for a moment.”

You didn’t wait.

You followed the nurse through a maze of white walls and glass doors until you reached the ICU.

Room 306.

You stepped inside—

And everything stopped.

Gojo was there. Pale. Motionless. Tubes in his arms. His silver hair spread across the pillow like spilled moonlight. The monitors beeped in slow rhythm. His chest rising and falling faintly beneath the sheets.

He looked so small.

Your knees buckled slightly, and you reached for the chair beside him, collapsing into it. You reached for his hand—it was cold.

But you held it.

“You idiot,” you whispered. “You dumb, obsessive idiot…”

Your voice broke.

“Why did you meet him? Why didn’t you just stay?”

The tears came silently, dripping from your chin onto his hand as you stroked your thumb across his knuckles.

You thought about the gun. The blood. The phone call.

The red room.

The photos. The lies. The manipulation.

You should’ve walked away. You tried to.

But here you were. Sitting beside him. Bleeding with him all over again.

And you hated it.

“Come back,” you whispered, trembling. “You don’t get to die after doing all this. You don’t.”

Behind you, Geto leaned against the wall, his arms crossed, face unreadable—but his jaw ticked.

“He won’t die,” he said, voice low. “He’s too stubborn.”

The room fell quiet again.

The machines beeped.

And Gojo—unmoving—looked like a god fallen from grace. Still beautiful. Still yours. And still… dangerous.

But for now?

He was just a boy in a bed. And you were the wife who couldn’t let him go.

You didn’t know how long you’d been there.

But your hand never left his.

The hospital lights dimmed as the night bled on, casting soft golden halos over Gojo’s unconscious body. His breathing was steady. Machines beeped in rhythm. You sat slumped at his bedside—still, silent, emptied out like a grave already dug.

You had cried until there was nothing left. Until your body trembled from the strain. Until even grief was quiet.

Your forehead rested against his knuckles. The warmth of his skin had faded. But you held on.

Behind you, Geto hadn't moved in hours.

He stood like a statue in the far corner of the room, arms crossed, his dark eyes scanning the monitors occasionally—but always returning to you.

He remembered Gojo’s voice before it all went to hell.

“If something happens to me… take care of her. I don’t mean check in—I mean protect her. Even if she hates you. Even if she leaves. She’s mine, Suguru. Promise me.”

And he had promised.

But the man in that bed wasn’t gone.

Not yet.

You began to sway.

Your body leaned too far forward—exhaustion dragging you down like undertow—and before your forehead could slam into the railing, Geto was there. Fast. Silent. Strong arms wrapped around you, lifting you from the chair with ease.

“I’m taking you home,” he muttered, voice gruff.

You startled awake with a panicked jerk, weak fists pushing at his chest.

“No—don’t take me—he might—what if he—I need to stay.”

Geto’s grip tightened.

“Y/N.” His voice was firmer now. Stern. “You have kids waiting at home. They’re scared. They miss you. And you’re barely standing upright.”

You shook your head in protest, tears stinging your eyes again.

“I can’t leave him. Not like this. I can’t. What if he wakes up? What if he—”

“He’s safe,” Geto cut in. “You said it yourself—he’s an obsessed idiot. He’s not going anywhere. And the police are looking for Hiromi now. He won’t get near you.”

At the mention of his name, your whole body went stiff.

“Don’t say it,” you snapped. “Don’t say his name.”

Geto didn’t flinch. He just exhaled slowly, like he’d expected that.

“Fine,” he said calmly. “But it doesn’t change the fact that you need to go home. You’re no good to Gojo like this. And your boys… they’re your lifeline.”

You fell silent.

Because he was right.

Your chest ached at the thought of them—your boys. You had left them with Shoko, trusting she would explain everything. But how could you explain this?

That you left to escape madness, only to fall into another.

Your heart split down the middle—torn between blood and obsession, between the boys who loved you innocently and the man who loved you so violently it threatened to consume everything.

“I shouldn’t have left him,” you whispered, eyes glued to Gojo’s sleeping form. “I should’ve stayed. Maybe he wouldn’t have…”

You trailed off.

Guilt burned hot in your stomach.

“It’s not your fault,” Geto said quietly. “You did what you thought was right.”

But it didn’t feel right. None of it did.

You reached out, brushing a strand of Gojo’s hair from his forehead—your fingers trembling as they lingered.

“I’m coming back,” you whispered. “Don’t you dare leave me. Don’t you dare.”

And then you turned away.

Let Geto guide you out the door. Let the hallway swallow your sobs. Let the lights fade behind you.

Because right now— you needed to be a mother.

But your heart?

It never left that hospital room.

You didn’t remember driving home.

All you remembered was the silence.

The kind of silence that filled your throat like water. That pulled at your lungs and blurred your vision as your fingers gripped the wheel. When you pulled into the driveway, everything felt wrong.

The lights inside were soft. The rain had stopped.

You walked through the front door barefoot, soaked to the bone, blood-dried hands trembling as you shut it quietly behind you.

They were all asleep.

You could see them—your boys curled up on the couch, still in their pajamas, one of them clutching a stuffed dinosaur. Shoko was passed out too, half-upright, her head against the side of the couch, glasses askew, her coat draped around the kids.

You stood there for a moment.

Breathing. Not breathing. Living. Not living.

You climbed the stairs slowly. Every joint in your body hurt. Like your bones were splintering from the inside out.

You entered your bedroom, stripped of anything that once resembled comfort. Quietly, you knelt beside the tub and turned on the water—hot, slow, rising.

Then you went back.

Touched Shoko’s shoulder gently.

“Shoko,” you whispered.

She stirred immediately, blinking up at you. Her brows furrowed at the sight—your soaked skin, the blood drying down your arms, the blank look in your eyes.

“Y/N?” she stood quickly. “What happened—?”

“Come upstairs,” you said. “Please. I just… I need help.”

She followed without a word.

You stepped into the bathroom first, peeling everything off like it was burning you—shirt, bra, pants, underwear—until nothing was left but skin and trauma. You stepped into the tub without grace, knees shaking, body lowering into the steaming water like a prayer being drowned.

The blood began to dissolve instantly.

Red spirals clouding the surface, your own sins peeling away from your thighs, your collarbones, your hands. But it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

Shoko dropped to her knees outside the tub, grabbing the rag. She didn’t speak—not yet. She began washing you in silence. Warm cloth. Gentle hands. Surgical movements. It wasn’t sensual. It wasn’t maternal.

It was something in between.

A woman bathing another woman who had just looked death in the face and whispered: I still want him.

You sat there, arms limp at your sides, staring at the patterns of blood and water swirling like galaxies between your legs.

And then you spoke.

“He’s in a coma,” you said hollowly. “Three bullets. Not fatal. But he bled so much, Shoko. It was everywhere.”

Shoko’s hands froze.

“Who?” she asked softly, even though she already knew.

“Gojo.”

She swallowed. “...Did Hiromi—?”

You nodded.

Your lip trembled.

“I found out about the red room,” you continued, voice breaking. “I saw the pictures. Of us. The camera. I freaked out. I told him I was done. I said—if he really loved me, he’d burn the obsession. Burn the photos. I told him I needed time…”

Your throat closed up.

“And then he called. Bleeding out. Begging me not to leave him.”

You covered your face. The sob cracked you in half.

Shoko stared at you—something wild and heartbroken in her expression. Then she sat on the edge of the tub, placing a firm hand on your shoulder.

“Y/N,” she said quietly. “Love is fucked. In more ways than I can count.”

Her voice softened.

“But this guy? This Gojo?”

She exhaled.

“He’s unhinged as fuck. Seriously. Borderline psychotic. But from the way you’re talking… from the way he bled for you, cried for you—”

She tilted her head.

“It almost sounds like he really fucking loved you.”

You didn’t answer.

Because part of you knew.

That’s what made it worse.

The morning light didn’t warm the room. It just reminded her of everything that had happened in the dark.

-

Y/N sat in the small, sterile room at the station—her hands folded tightly on the table. Her knuckles were pale, her jaw clenched. Across from her sat two detectives. One older, with a hollow stare. The other younger, scribbling on a notepad as if any of this could be reduced to bullet points.

She was tired. But not too tired to lie.

“We haven’t found him,” the younger detective said, tapping his pen. “Nor the weapon. The alley was clear. No prints. No cameras that weren’t already tampered with. Which means—this wasn’t spontaneous.”

“Hiromi planned it,” Y/N said automatically, her voice hoarse. “He’s the type. He’s… deliberate.”

They looked at her closely. She didn’t blink.

“You’re saying this was premeditated.”

“I’m saying,” she said quietly, “that Hiromi Arata is a narcissist with a God complex and a grudge. He’s been emotionally abusing me for years. He cheated, gaslit, threatened custody of my children… I tried to leave him. Tried to fight back. He hated that.”

The older detective narrowed his eyes.

“Why would he shoot Satoru Gojo?”

Y/N’s throat closed. Her heart pounded, but she leaned forward calmly.

“Because I finally gave up. I had an affair with Satoru Gojo. And Hiromi couldn’t stomach that.”She met their gaze.

“You need to check his old firm. His mother’s estate in Aomori. The offshore property in Okinawa—he used to take mistresses there. He has ties to a real estate broker named Shinji Ikeda—he could be using false documentation. He also has military contacts. Black market access.”

Both detectives paused. Taken aback.

“You seem to know a lot.”

“I was married to him,” she said. “He’s sloppy when he’s angry.”

They scribbled notes.

“Anything else?” the older one asked.

She paused. A long silence.

“No,” she said. “That’s everything.”

She did not mention Gojo.

Not the photos. Not the red room. Not the plan. Not the gun that had been left in the car.

Because no one could know what this truly was. Not yet.

She stood up as they finished taking her statement. One of them offered to walk her out. She declined. Outside, she lit a cigarette with shaking fingers, eyes unfocused as her breath left her in short, fast exhales.

She should tell them. Be rid of all of it. Of everything.

She should expose all of it. But her hand reached for her phone instead. And when she opened her camera roll, there it was— A blurry image. Gojo, laughing. Her boys in the background. Sunlight.

A memory she couldn’t delete.

“God help me,” she whispered. “I can’t lose him.”

—

The room was quiet except for the machines—beeping softly, faithfully. A constant rhythm of life holding him just above the edge of death.

Y/N knelt beside his bed. The metal bar dug into her ribs, but she didn’t care. Her fingers wrapped around his wrist—bandaged, bruised, but warm. He was still warm.

Her forehead pressed into his arm, tears soaking through the fabric of the hospital gown. Her sobs had long stopped being loud. Now they were muffled, helpless—like a child’s.

“I hate you,” she whispered brokenly. “I hate what you’ve done to me…”

She meant it. But she didn’t.

Because she was still there. On the floor. In the quiet. In love.

“I was supposed to be better than this,” she muttered, pulling herself closer. “Supposed to run. To protect my kids. To move on—”

But she never did. Not really. Not since the first time he looked at her like she wasn't a broken woman, begging for scraps from her husband.

Not since the first time Gojo called her beautiful— Without wanting her to disappear afterward.

She lifted her face from his arm, slowly… swollen eyes dragging across his features.

Even unconscious, he looked like something out of a fever dream—hair messy against the pillow, lips pale and cracked, skin washed in moonlight. The bandages across his chest peeked out from beneath the blanket, stark against his skin.

“You never made me feel like the other woman,” she said softly. “Not once.”

Her voice cracked.

“You looked at me like I was the only woman.”

The only one he ever saw. The only one he ever wanted.

“You gave me everything—even if it ruined you.”

Her fingers ran along his wrist. His pulse—faint, but steady—was a drumbeat against her skin.

She smiled, through the tears. A soft, broken thing.

“And maybe… that’s the truth I was running from.”

Her knees ached. Her chest ached. But she didn’t move.

She thought of the long nights—the texts, the late drives, the way he waited for her in the shadows. The way he watched her like she was the only thing in the world that made sense.

“All this time… maybe I was just as in love as you were.”

She reached up, gently brushing his hair from his face. The IV beeped again, and she kissed his hand, slow and lingering.

“I’m sorry it took a bullet for me to realize it.”

She rested her head on his chest, listening to the beat of a heart too stubborn to stop.

She stayed like that until the sun came up.

—

It had been thirty-one days.

Thirty-one mornings without his voice. Thirty-one nights without his arms around her. Thirty-one moments where she swore she felt him at her back—only to turn around and find the air still, silent, empty.

The hospital called twice a week with updates, but there were never changes. No blinking. No movement. Just the soft, cruel hum of machines keeping his body alive while his soul refused to come back.

Y/N stood in the kitchen—barefoot, an old apron tied around her waist. It used to be Gojo’s favorite—navy with a little flour-stained print of cats wearing chef hats. He’d teased her for wearing it so often.

She’d never stopped.

The dough was soft beneath her hands, pliable, sweet-scented from the vanilla and brown sugar. The boys had begged for cookies for their upcoming birthday party, and she had promised—because if she stopped making promises, she was scared she’d forget how to keep them.

Her fingers trembled as she rolled the pin over the dough. Smooth. Push. Smooth. Push. It was supposed to be a simple task.

But the kitchen felt too quiet. Too cold.

Her mind wandered—back to the hospital room. To the sterile scent of antiseptic. To the sound of Geto saying he looks better today. As if healing skin meant anything if his eyes were still closed.

“You said you’d never leave me…” she whispered aloud, voice hoarse, words meant for no one but the ghost that lingered in every room.

She turned away from the counter, blinking back the sting in her eyes. The cookies sat evenly spaced on the baking tray, raw and soft and shapeless.

She slipped them into the oven, the warmth briefly brushing her face before the door clicked shut.

“Mommy?” A sleepy voice.

Her youngest stood in the doorway, rubbing his eyes with the sleeve of his oversized T-shirt.

She forced a smile.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” “I had a bad dream,” he mumbled. “You weren’t here. And Gojo wasn’t either.”

Her heart cracked.

She knelt, pulling him into her arms—his little body warm against hers. She brushed his hair back with shaking fingers and kissed his temple.

“I’m always here,” she said softly. “And Gojo… he’s just resting, baby. He’s going to be okay.”

“And Daddy?” A pause.

Her throat tightened.

“Daddy’s… away right now. But you’re safe, okay? I promise.”

She lied better now. It scared her how easy it was.

Once the boy was settled again, curled beneath his blankets with the hallway light left on just in case, Y/N returned to the kitchen.

The smell of the cookies filled the house—warm, familiar, sweet. But it didn’t feel like home.

Not without his stupid jokes. Not without his arms around her waist. Not without him stealing dough and pretending it was for quality control.

She turned the oven off. Slowly pulled the tray out with padded mitts.

The steam hit her in the face, curling around her like a ghost. Her eyes stung again.

“Come back to me,” she whispered.

And she meant it like a prayer. Like a command. Like a curse.

It was nearly midnight.

The house was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that feels like a scream trapped in glass.

The boys were upstairs—tucked under soft blankets, curled like commas in their beds. Their chests rose and fell with innocence she no longer remembered how to feel. Shoko had left a few hours ago, promising to check in first thing in the morning.

And Y/N… She was still in the kitchen.

Her apron was stained, fingertips dusted in flour, her arms aching from the constant rolling of dough that no one would eat. Dozens of cookies lay cooling on the counter, untouched, perfect, meaningless. She stared at them like they were strangers. One more batch and she’d lose it. One more tray and she’d crack.

Her hands dropped to the counter. She pressed her palms against it, grounding herself.

No Gojo. No Hiromi. No job. Just her.

Just her and the silence. And the ghosts they left behind.

Outside, the wind tapped against the glass. A branch scratched the windowpane like it wanted to come inside. She turned to look, chest rising with a tired breath. But something—

No. Someone.

Footsteps.

She turned slowly, shoulders stiff, mind numb, as if her body already knew.

And there he was.

Hiromi.

Standing in the archway of the kitchen.

Slightly damp from the rain, dressed in his usual dark suit, his tie half-loosened like he had just come from a meeting. There was a cigarette tucked behind his ear.

He didn’t say a word. He just… looked at her.

And she didn’t flinch.

Didn’t scream. Didn’t cry.

She didn’t even move.

She just stared at him.

Eyes hollow. Heart silent.

“You found me,” she murmured.

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even surprise.

It was resignation.

Her voice was barely above a whisper, but it hung in the room like a suspended knife. She could feel it, the line of tension between them—razor-thin and soaked in history.

“The kids?” he asked, voice low.

“Asleep,” she replied flatly. “Where you should be.”

He smiled faintly, like it was a joke only he understood.

“I missed this house,” he said, stepping forward. “Missed you.”

Y/N didn’t move. Her hand gripped the edge of the counter just in case.

“You shot him,” she said quietly. “You left him to die.”

Hiromi’s eyes flickered, but he didn’t deny it.

“He deserved it.”

“And what do I deserve?” she asked, voice like cold rain. “To be stalked in my own kitchen?”

His expression shifted—something between pity and power.

“You’ve been baking all night,” he said, stepping closer. “Like a woman with no one left. But I’m still here, Y/N.”

“You shouldn’t be.”

“But I am.”

She didn’t cry. She was too far gone for that.

Instead, she looked him up and down, then said, as if it were fact:

“You’re going to ruin everything.”

And Hiromi? He just smiled. As if he already had.

The tension in the kitchen turned solid. The kind that could snap a neck if it pulled tight enough.

Hiromi circled the room slowly, eyes tracing the flour-dusted counters, the mixing bowls, the trays of untouched cookies like they meant something. He picked one up—bit into it—and chewed slowly, like he was tasting her grief.

“You still bake when you’re unraveling,” he said. “I always found that charming. Like you were trying to build order out of chaos. One cookie at a time.”

Y/N didn’t respond. She stood still, the overhead light flickering slightly above her.

Hiromi licked sugar from his thumb.

“You know…” he drawled, “I used to fantasize about this moment. You, alone. The boys upstairs. No Gojo. No job. Just me. Just us—again.”

He stepped closer.

“You don’t even look shocked to see me. That’s how I know it was always going to come to this.”

Y/N blinked, voice still hoarse from the hospital breakdown days before.

“You came here to finish what you started. Didn’t you?”

Hiromi tilted his head.

“I came to bring you back to me.”

“You’re sick.”

“I’m right,” he said sharply. “You were a mess before me. You were a mess without me. And now with him—you’re even worse. Look at you. Baking like you’re auditioning for a breakdown. You’re lucky I’m still offering you anything at all.”

“You’re delusional if you think I’d ever go back to you.”

“Delusional?” He laughed—dark and cold. “You were living with a stalker who watches you in your sleep, who probably has photos of you brushing your goddamn teeth, and I’m the dangerous one?”

Y/N’s hands trembled.

“At least he never made me feel like the other woman.”

Hiromi’s face contorted—rage, disbelief, insult.

“He’s turned you into something pathetic. You're not even a woman anymore. You’re a puppet. You’re being used.”

He stepped even closer, voice lowering to a whisper.

“Do you think he loves you? You think that obsession is love? You think he won’t destroy you too?”

She stared straight through him.

“He already did.”

That silence again.

But this time, it wasn't hollow.

It was a countdown.

Hiromi shook his head, laughing bitterly. He began to turn toward the door, his figure outlined in the light of the hall.

And that’s when she spoke.

“Hiromi.”

He stopped.

Turned.

And the moment he did—

CRACK.

The sound of metal meeting bone echoed through the kitchen.

The rolling pin—slick with butter and flour—slammed across the side of his head like a baseball bat, and Hiromi went stumbling, crashing into the counter. A trail of crimson spilled instantly from his temple.

He groaned, trying to regain balance, but she was already on him.

Another swing.

Another crack.

He dropped to the floor like a sack of rotting guilt, groaning, one hand weakly raised as if that could protect him from what he’d earned.

Y/N stood above him, trembling, breath ragged, rolling pin still gripped in her flour-covered hands.

The rolling pin clattered to the floor.

Hiromi lay sprawled on the kitchen tile, blood seeping from the side of his skull, his breathing ragged—but still alive. Not dead. Not yet.

Y/N stood over him, shaking—not with fear, but with calculation.

She looked down at her arm. The sharp corner of the marble countertop caught her eye.

THUMP.

She slammed her own forearm into it with brutal force. Once. Twice. A sickening crack bloomed across the bone. Her knees buckled at the pain, but she didn’t cry. She couldn't afford to.

The blood from Hiromi’s head. The bruise now swelling on her own arm. It told the perfect story.

She limped to the landline and called it in.

“Yes—someone broke into my house. He attacked me. Please—I have two kids upstairs—”

The sirens were there before the pain fully settled in.

Red and blue lights painted the front lawn like a crime scene watercolor. Flashlights flooded the foyer. Officers stormed in with urgency, guns drawn.

“Hands where we can see them!—Ma’am, are you alright?”

Y/N stood in the middle of the kitchen, hair a mess, lip split from a bite too hard, arm bruised, flour smudged on her face like war paint.

“He came in through the back,” she gasped, “I tried to fight him off—I—I didn’t know what else to do—”

Hiromi was groaning, incoherent, still clutching his head.

The cuffs clicked on like music.

“You’re under arrest for breaking and entering, assault, and endangering a household,” one of the officers barked, hauling Hiromi up.

“Y/N—Y/N—” he sputtered, blood in his mouth, dazed. “She—she did this—she hit me—she hit herself—!”

But no one listened.

Because Y/N… was crying now.

Tears perfect. Voice broken just enough.

“He threatened to kill me if I didn’t come back. He shot Gojo Satoru! He said the boys weren’t safe. What was I supposed to do?”

The police officers looked at her like she was a saint who barely survived a demon.

They nodded. They reassured her. They took photos. They took her statement.

And before they left…

She smiled warmly through cracked lips and handed them a tray.

“Cookies,” she said softly. “Chocolate chip. It’s all I had to offer.”

One of the younger officers blushed.

“They’re great. Thank you, ma’am.”

As the door swung open, Hiromi was dragged past her, eyes wide in horror. She stepped closer—so close only he could hear.

“See?” she whispered, voice low and velvet. “I learned from the best.”

Her smile widened as they shoved him into the back of the squad car.

“I’m the monster now.”

And the door slammed shut behind him.

—

Darkness.

At first, it was all he knew—heavy, wet, suffocating darkness. Like drowning in warm velvet.

Then… a flicker.

A sting.

A breath—

GASP.

Gojo’s eyes flew open.

White lights.

Sterile ceiling tiles.

The incessant beep-beep-beep of a heart monitor.

Everything was too bright. Too clean. Too quiet.

His throat was dry. His vision blurred. The sharp pain in his chest throbbed like a war drum. When he lifted his trembling hand, his palm grazed a thick bandage. Damp.

Warm.

Red.

Blood.

It had reopened.

He pressed his fingertips into it—hard—dragging the thick fluid up, smearing it against his lips like war paint. And then—

He smelled it.

Faint. Feminine. Undeniable.

Her.

The sweetness of her perfume. The salt of her skin. The way she smelled when she cried, when she kissed, when she begged.

It was all over him.

“Y/N…” he breathed, chest rising in trembling, erratic waves.

His pupils dilated.

His lips cracked into a grin—wide, trembling, almost childlike in its euphoria.

“It worked.”

A laugh tore from his throat. Broken. Crooked. Wet.

“It worked.”

He gripped the bloodied bandage tighter, dragging his nails through it, smearing her scent across his own skin like cologne made of sin.

“She came back,” he whispered, tears pooling in his lashes. “She chose me. Even when I was bleeding out like a fucking dog in the dirt…”

The heart monitor blipped faster. Faster. The machines began to beep wildly.

But Gojo was lost in mania.

“You love me, don’t you?” he whispered to no one, voice high and sweet like a lullaby. “You said you didn’t… but your hands said otherwise. The way you sobbed into me—oh, I remember now… I remember everything…”

His head tilted. His smile widened—too wide.

He laughed again.

Low.

Sharp.

And then—he stopped.

His head slowly turned toward the hospital door.

His smile dropped.

Eyes narrowed.

Something shifted behind the whites of them, like a void cracking open.

“She’s not here,” he said flatly.

“Why the fuck isn’t she here?”

He sat up—too fast. The IV ripped from his arm. Blood spilled across the sheets. The machines shrieked.

“WHERE IS SHE?”

CRASH.

He hurled the monitor. The beeping exploded into static.

Footsteps approached from the hallway. Nurses shouting. Security alerted.

But Gojo didn’t care.

He licked the blood from his knuckles like syrup and whispered beneath his breath:

“She’s mine. You don’t leave me… not now. Not ever. I’ll find you, Y/N.”

“And next time… I won’t have to bleed to make you stay.”

-

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[yanderslutt]

"…𝗔𝗿𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗼 𝗴𝗶𝗿𝗹𝘀?"

yandere ! mei mei , soft dom! utahime , dom! shoko x reader | jjk female harem

pt 1

cws ; this story is intended for mature audiences 18+ only and contains explicit sexual content, strong yandere themes, and psychological manipulation. the narrative includes elements of emotional coercion, possessiveness, and a female reader caught in a complex, obsessive harem dynamic involving yandere! mei mei, soft dom! utahime, and dom! shoko.

expect scenes involving stalking, mind games, and power imbalances. utahime exhibits a soft, nurturing dominance, while shoko leans into a more assertive, commanding dom role. mei mei’s affection manifests through intense obsession, calculated control, and manipulative seduction.

the fic explores dubcon-adjacent dynamics, jealousy, rivalry tension, restraint, and power play. readers can also anticipate voyeuristic moments, intimate grinding, oral (f!receiving), and a general atmosphere of dark, romantic thriller energy. if you enjoy slow-burn tension, psychological seduction, and dangerously possessive love, this one’s for you.

summary ; three women. three obsessions. one dangerous heart caught in the middle. you never meant to become the center of their attention—never asked for the lingering stares, the twisted affection, or the secrets whispered in the dark. but now you're theirs, whether you want to be or not. mei mei watches from the shadows, a predator cloaked in silk and sharp smiles. she doesn’t ask for love—she takes it. your time, your choices, your body… they belong to her. utahime touches you like a prayer, all soft control and whispered promises. gentle on the outside, but underneath… she’d burn the world just to keep you safe in her arms. shoko doesn’t play nice. she smokes like she breathes boredom and fucks like she owns you. she doesn’t need to chase—you always come back, aching, confused, addicted. caught between their games, you're forced to make a choice. but when every option is obsession... do you really have one?

--

The envelope was heavier than usual. Ivory, smooth, and sealed with a crimson wax insignia that looked like it belonged in a movie—not real life. My fingers trembled a little as I tore it open, heart knocking inside my chest like it already knew what was written inside.

Congratulations.

I read the first line over and over again, barely processing the rest of the letter. But once the words sunk in, a small breath escaped my lips. Relief. Then joy. Then something else—something sweeter, lighter. Hope.

I got the job.

A financial specialist. Full-time. Benefits. A new city. A fresh start.

My smile grew so wide it hurt. I turned in a small circle in my tiny apartment, clutching the letter to my chest. Sunlight poured in through the half-open blinds, casting golden stripes across the room, and for the first time in months, I felt like everything might actually be okay.

After everything I went through with him—after losing my job, my peace of mind, my entire sense of self—I had finally carved out a new path.

I sank into the couch, still grinning like an idiot, and pulled out my phone. My fingers flew across the screen as I opened my messages.

Me: I GOT THE JOB!!!!!!! 😭😭😭

Utahime’s name lit up almost instantly.

Utahime: Drinks.. on me?🍷💅

I laughed, clutching the phone to my chest. That emoji combo was so her. Sassy, celebratory, and just what I needed.

I typed back quickly, still giddy.

Me: YES. I’ll meet you at our usual place. First round’s on me.

The truth was, I didn’t know exactly what this new chapter would look like. But for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t scared of the unknown.

I was excited.

Ready.

The bar was dim and warm, the kind of place that always smelled like honeyed whiskey and lemon peels. Our favorite spot. The string lights overhead glowed amber as I pushed through the door, eyes already scanning for Utahime’s familiar figure.

She was already there—tucked into a booth near the back, two drinks waiting on the table, her lipstick perfectly applied and barely smudged at the edge of the glass. She always looked effortlessly put together, even when she swore she wasn’t trying.

I smiled, walking over quickly. "You beat me."

Utahime stood, wrapping me in a hug that lasted a beat longer than usual. Her arms were warm, grounding. For a second, I let myself sink into it—into her familiar perfume, the soft press of her cheek against mine.

"You got the job, of course I beat you here. I had to celebrate properly." She grinned, stepping back as we both slid into the booth.

"I still can’t believe it," I said, reaching for the drink she’d clearly ordered for me. My favorite—gin, citrus, sugar rim. "It feels surreal."

"Well, it’s real now. You’re officially out of the hellhole."

I laughed, nodding. "God, yeah. Out of the city, out of the mess, out of his shadow."

Her smile faltered just slightly, but she covered it with a sip of her drink. "You deserve this. Every second of it."

I watched her for a moment, suddenly aware of the way her fingers curled around the glass, her nails painted deep red to match the tint of her lips. She looked tired, but beautiful. The kind of beautiful that didn’t need effort.

"So," she said, leaning in, "what’s the plan? Are you finally going to let loose a little? Maybe start dating again?"

I groaned, leaning back in the booth. "I don’t know. The idea of dating still makes me want to break into hives. I just want to exist without anyone else trying to control my every move."

Utahime chuckled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. "Fair enough."

We talked for hours—about the move, my new job, the chaos of the summer. I told her about the time I got caught in the rain during a thunderstorm with all my boxes half-unpacked, how I lived off gas station snacks for a week, how I cried the first night I slept in my new apartment because it was the first time I felt safe.

She listened to every word, eyes soft, smile wistful. She always listened like that. Like everything I said mattered.

And somewhere between our third round of drinks and her story about a botched first date she never followed up on, something shifted.

She looked at me, really looked at me, her expression more serious than I was used to.

"I’m really proud of you," she said quietly. "You made it out. You started over. You’re... brave."

I felt my stomach twist in a way I didn’t expect.

"I wouldn’t have made it without you," I replied, my voice just as low. "You were the only person who stuck around. I hope you know how much that means to me."

Utahime looked down, brushing a thumb over the rim of her glass. "I was never going to leave you. I couldn’t."

There was something unsaid in the silence that followed. A glance. A flicker. A feeling I couldn’t quite name.

But before I could ask—before I could say anything—she laughed softly, shaking her head like she had just remembered herself.

"Come on," she said, raising her glass again. "To new beginnings."

I clinked mine against hers.

"To new beginnings," I echoed, pretending I didn’t notice the way her gaze lingered just a second too long on my lips.

The air outside was heavy with summer heat, even as the sun dipped past the skyline. We were both a little buzzed—okay, more than a little. Tipsy giggles spilled from our mouths as we stumbled side by side down the quiet street, shoes clicking against pavement and arms occasionally brushing.

"Your place is closer," Utahime had said, cheeks flushed, her voice a little breathier than usual. "And I’m not in the mood to fight off creeps tonight. Let me crash with you?"

"Please," I laughed, nudging her playfully. "You say that like I’m not secretly obsessed with our sleepovers."

Her smile faltered for just a second. A flicker. Quick. If I hadn’t known her for years, I might’ve missed it.

The walk was short, filled with laughter and off-key harmonies to some song we made up mid-step. When we reached my building, I unlocked the door with a dramatic flourish, grinning back at her as I swung it open.

"Welcome to my kingdom," I announced, voice still drunk on gin and nostalgia.

Utahime walked in slowly, shoulders tense beneath her cardigan. Something about her demeanor shifted. The air around her went quieter.

"You okay?" I asked, toeing off my shoes and heading toward the kitchen. "I’m grabbing us some water before we turn into dehydrated zombies tomorrow."

She mumbled something I didn’t catch.

I turned back, the fridge door still open, and stared at her.

She was standing in the middle of the living room—perfectly still. Her arms were wrapped around herself, and her gaze was fixed on the floor, not meeting mine.

"Utahime?" I asked again, gently this time. "Hey… what’s going on?"

She blinked quickly, like she hadn’t realized she was being watched. Then her eyes met mine, wide and glassy. Her lip quivered slightly before she forced a half-laugh.

"Sorry. I just..." She shook her head, the corner of her mouth twitching like she wanted to smile but couldn’t quite pull it off. "I think the drinks are just hitting harder than I thought."

But I knew her better than that.

I walked over slowly, water bottles still in hand, and offered one to her. "Sit down. Breathe. You don’t have to explain anything if you don’t want to."

She took the bottle but didn’t sit. Instead, she looked at me for a long, unspoken moment. Her fingers gripped the plastic tighter than they needed to.

"You always make it so hard to forget," she whispered suddenly.

My heart stopped.

"What?"

Utahime’s cheeks burned. She took a shaky breath, eyes darting to the side.

"Nothing. I mean—forget I said anything. I just meant..." She paused again. "You don’t see it. And that’s fine. It’s always been fine."

I stepped closer, heart pounding, something electric and unfamiliar stirring under my skin.

"See what?" I asked quietly.

She looked up at me then, finally. And in her eyes was everything she’d kept hidden for years.

Me.

“N—nothing.. I’m tired.”

The apartment was quiet now. Just the hum of the fridge and the soft flicker of city lights spilling through the blinds. I handed Utahime a pair of spare pajamas—an old oversized T-shirt and shorts—and she took them with a small, grateful smile, still a little pink from the alcohol.

I peeled off my jeans first, not thinking twice about it—we’d known each other forever. She’d seen me hungover, heartbroken, sick with the flu, even mid-sob after my ex ruined everything. This wasn’t new.

But tonight… something felt different.

Her gaze lingered longer than usual as I slipped out of my tank top, swapping it for a soft, worn sleep shirt. Her hands fumbled a bit with the waistband of the shorts I gave her.

"You good?" I asked playfully as I slid under the covers.

Utahime froze in the middle of tugging her shirt down, eyes wide and face flushed like she’d swallowed fire.

"You look like you’ve seen a ghost," I teased, laughing as I fluffed my pillow and patted the empty space beside me.

She let out a shaky breath and sat on the edge of the bed, water bottle abandoned on the nightstand. Her shoulders were tense, her hands twisted in the hem of her shirt.

"Can I ask you something?" she said suddenly, her voice softer than I’d ever heard it.

I blinked, nodding. "Of course."

"Have you ever… been with a girl?"

The question made me pause. I sat up, brushing hair from my face.

"Besides that one time I kissed one at a party for a dare?" I chuckled. "Not really."

Her head tilted, eyes locked on mine.

"But have you ever wanted to do something with a girl?"

I shrugged, watching her carefully. The strap of my tank slipped from my shoulder, but I didn’t fix it.

"I don’t know," I said with a slow smile. "Depends. Why?"

Utahime’s eyes dropped to the bedspread. She exhaled again, still pink, still a little too still.

"Because… I haven’t. Kissed a girl, I mean.” She lied.

That made me laugh, maybe more than I should’ve. "Wait. Never?"

She rolled her eyes, clearly embarrassed. "No. But I’ve always wanted to try."

The laughter cooled in my throat.

She wasn’t joking.

I shifted on my knees, facing her now—our thighs almost touching, breath mingling in the quiet tension of the room. I looked at her closely, really looked. She was nervous. Blushing. Vulnerable in a way I’d never seen.

And maybe the alcohol was making me bold. Or maybe something in me had always wondered.

I tilted my head, lips curling slightly.

"Well," I said, voice lower now, more careful, more curious. "As your best friend… do you want to try?"

She looked at me—eyes wide, mouth slightly open, stunned into silence.

And the space between us felt like a spark waiting to catch fire.

The room was quiet, suspended in something fragile and heavy. I could hear my heartbeat in my ears, feel the warmth of the moment pressed against my skin like silk—unspoken and intoxicating.

Utahime didn’t look away.

So I leaned in.

Softly.

Tentatively.

Our lips met in the middle—slow, warm, a delicate brush that made my stomach twist with something I couldn’t name.

She exhaled against my mouth like she’d been holding her breath for years.

The kiss deepened almost naturally, like we had both been waiting for it longer than we realized. Her fingers reached up, trembling at first, then steady as they cupped my cheeks, pulling me closer.

That’s when her tongue slipped past my lips.

My mouth parted in surprise, and she took the opening—curious, gentle, but hungry.

The taste of her. The rhythm. The heat of her hands cradling my face like I was something fragile—something she didn’t want to break.

I didn’t stop.

My body moved without thinking, climbing into her lap as my knees sank into the bed on either side of her hips. Her breath caught when I settled above her, our chests almost touching. Her hands fell to my waist, riding up the edge of my tank top, her fingertips grazing bare skin.

Still, I didn’t stop.

And neither did she.

There was no fear in it. Just curiosity. Just something real and raw and so undeniably present.

She looked up at me with lips parted and eyes heavy, her thumb brushing just under the hem of my shirt like she was waiting for permission.

But I gave her none.

Because I didn’t need to.

My hands slid into her hair, my hips shifting slightly in her lap, and I kissed her again—slower this time, like I wanted to remember how it felt to be wanted like this.

Like we were finally letting go of everything we were too afraid to say.

Just two girls in a quiet room, hearts loud, hands curious—finally trying something we had only ever dreamed of.

Her lips parted from mine with a soft, breathless sound.

The air between us crackled—thick, warm, trembling with tension. I stayed in her lap, straddling her, chest rising and falling beneath my tank top as we both tried to catch our breath. Utahime looked up at me. Hair tousled. Lips swollen. Eyes wide and glassy. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to.

I saw the question there, lingering in her gaze, begging in silence. Can I?

She was asking. With a glance. With the way her hands hovered at my ribs, unsure, reverent.

I nodded slowly, breath caught in my throat. And then I reached down and lifted my tank top over my head, tossing it somewhere beside the bed. The cool air kissed my skin, but it wasn’t enough to cool the heat rushing to my cheeks. She swallowed, hands trembling slightly as they reached behind me. I felt the soft pull of my bra strap, the subtle snap of the clasp unhooking.

The straps fell from my shoulders. Then the fabric. And suddenly, I was bare in front of her. Utahime just stared, stunned into silence, her breath shaky and slow. Her eyes traced every inch of me like I was something sacred. Then—hesitantly, almost shyly—she leaned in.

Her tongue flicked out, soft and wet, brushing over one nipple. A sound escaped my mouth, sharp and airy. I hadn’t meant for it to—but I couldn’t hold it back. My hands flew to her shoulders for balance as I bit down on my lip, head tipping back slightly.

Her mouth closed around it gently, suckling, teasing, exploring. My face burned. My body reacted without thought, grinding subtly into her lap, hips rolling forward in rhythm with her touch. "Utahime," I whispered, my voice cracking as I fought to stay composed.

But I wasn’t. I was unraveling in her hands. And for the first time in a long time… I didn’t want to stop.

Clothes came off like they were made of smoke—tossed, discarded, forgotten. The alcohol buzz had long faded into something warmer. Heavier. Real.

Utahime was on top of me now, breath shaky, her skin flushed and glowing in the soft light. Her hands explored like she had waited forever—eyes locked on mine as her thighs slid around my hips. She hovered above me for just a second, then slowly, deliberately, lowered herself until our bodies aligned.

The moment our heat met—skin against skin, slick and bare—I gasped. My hips jolted upward on instinct, chasing the friction.

"Wait," I whispered, breathless. My brows pinched slightly, eyes searching hers. "Have you… done this before?"

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she leaned in, cupping my face with both hands like I was something she’d been desperate to touch her whole life. Her lips brushed against mine, soft at first—then firmer, hungrier.

"Shut up," she whispered against my mouth, and kissed me again.

And then she moved.

Our hips pressed. Rubbed. Slid.

Her clit against mine in a slow, fluid grind that pulled a strangled cry from my throat.

"Oh—"

I arched beneath her, my hands gripping her waist, fingers digging in for something to hold onto. The sensation was sharp, overwhelming, completely unlike anything I’d ever felt. It wasn’t just pleasure—it was electric.

Utahime moaned softly above me, forehead resting against mine as our movements synced. Her breath hitched every time our bodies met in just the right way.

I couldn’t think.

Couldn’t speak.

Only feel.

This wasn’t something I wanted to suppress.

This was something I wanted to drown in.

And as our bodies moved in perfect rhythm, heat building fast between us, I realized…

Whatever this was—whatever it became—it wasn’t just an experiment.

It was real.

The room was heavy with heat and breath and the faint hum of the city outside, forgotten somewhere beyond the fogged windows.

Utahime gritted her teeth as her rhythm faltered—hips grinding against mine one last time, her body trembling with release. I clenched my thighs tighter, holding onto her with everything I had, feeling the sharp, warm unraveling burst through me like lightning in my veins.

It was wet. It was messy.

The sheets beneath us were damp with our slick, our thighs slick and trembling, hearts pounding against the silence.

Utahime collapsed forward for a moment, her breath shaky against my collarbone, her hair sticking to her cheek. I just stared up at the ceiling, chest rising and falling, lips parted, dazed.

This really happened.

She slowly sat up, flustered, brushing her hair behind her ears as she avoided my gaze. Her cheeks were stained deep red, a bashful smile tugging at her lips as she shifted beside me on the bed.

I turned my head to look at her, eyes still wide, my body still warm from the aftershocks.

"...Are you into girls?" I asked softly.

She sucked in a breath through her nose, then laughed awkwardly, scratching the back of her neck. "Yeah. I mean… I knew back in high school. You know how it is—softball girls, team sleepovers. And then I started experimenting a little more when I got older."

She shrugged like it was no big deal, but her face was bright pink. "Honestly… I think I always knew when I was younger. But it’s whatever."

I snorted, pulling the sheet up over my chest as I stretched out beside her. "Mhm… so you lied to me earlier. You didn’t just want to kiss a girl—you wanted to do all that, too."

Utahime rolled her eyes but smiled, biting her bottom lip. “Okay, maybe.. just maybe your right.”

"Uh-huh," I teased, nudging her with my foot. "Well, now you’ve kissed a girl… and done a lot more."

She let out a dramatic sigh, flopping back beside me. "I mean, sure… maybe a little fingering in college. But this?"

She turned her head toward me, smirking. "Let’s just say… it looks like I turned you out."

I laughed, loud and shameless, the kind of laugh that felt real—unfiltered.

And maybe she did.

Maybe I liked that.

—

A week passed.

Seven days since Utahime and I blurred the lines between best friends and something else entirely. But surprisingly… it wasn’t weird.

There were no awkward silences. No stolen glances. No tension dripping off the edges of our conversations.

In fact, it felt like it never even happened.

Utahime was still her usual self—sarcastic, loud when drunk, loyal to a fault—and I? I threw myself into prepping for my first real assignment at the new job. It was easier to focus on spreadsheets and balance sheets than decipher what one night under the sheets meant.

Everything was good.

Peaceful.

Until Monday.

I walked into the sleek, glass-paneled building of Kyoto Metropolitan Enterprises with a tote bag over my shoulder and fresh nerves bubbling in my stomach.

The lobby gleamed like polished chrome, and the scent of expensive cologne and too-strong coffee hung thick in the air. My heels clicked with each step as I followed the signs for the Finance Department.

That’s when I met her.

Black hair, short and blunt, tucked neatly behind her ears. She had thin-rimmed click glasses, dark brows, and an expression that didn’t change when she saw me.

"Maki Zenin," she said flatly, extending her hand. Her grip was firm—borderline aggressive. "Assistant Supervisor. You're the new advisor, right?"

"Y/N," I replied, giving my best polite smile.

She nodded once, eyes flicking over me with a quick, unreadable scan. “Try not to be useless.”

Before I could ask whether that was a joke or not, she turned sharply on her heel and started walking.

...Right.

So that’s how it was going to be.

I followed her down the hall, the tension sharp enough to slice through the marble walls.

"You’ll be reporting to me directly for daily tasks," Maki continued without looking back. "But the department head is Shoko Ieiri. She’s in her office."

My stomach did a small somersault at the mention of the Shoko Ieiri. I’d heard the rumors.

Intimidating.

Unfiltered.

Smoked indoors even though she wasn’t supposed to.

But also one of the best forensic accountants in the country, with a reputation for keeping this department from collapsing in on itself.

Maki pushed open the office door without knocking.

"New hire’s here," she said, stepping aside.

I peeked in.

Shoko was sitting with her feet kicked up on her desk, cigarette in hand, a thick folder resting on her lap. She looked up with the laziest eyes I’d ever seen on a professional.

"Ah. You made it."

Her voice was raspy, tired, but… not cold.

There was something distant yet oddly warm in the way she nodded at me.

"Welcome to hell," she added, exhaling a long stream of smoke out the cracked window. "We’re glad you’re here."

And just like that, I realized—

This job was going to be everything but ordinary.

Shoko finally sat up straight in her chair, stubbing out her cigarette in a tray already crowded with others. The haze of smoke hung in the air like a warning, but she brushed it away casually as she reached into her drawer and pulled out a shiny new name badge.

"Y/N," she said, flicking the badge toward me. "Welcome to the Finance Department at Kyoto Metropolitan Enterprises. Try not to drown."

I caught it with both hands, smiling and bowing respectfully.

"Thank you, I won’t let you down."

She studied me for a moment, head tilted slightly to the side like she was trying to read more than just the nervous smile on my lips. Then she leaned back, arms crossed.

"Good. Because we’ve got our first financial proposal meeting next week with corporate. Big pitch. You and your team are responsible for presenting the strategy and breakdowns."

My eyes widened slightly. That was fast.

"You’ll be collaborating with some of the leads across departments. They’ll report to you for this project."

She handed me a tablet with the roster. "Maki’ll walk you through the prep docs, but meet your team today. Get them aligned."

I glanced at the list on the screen. Familiar names—some of them surprising.

Team Lead: Y/N (Financial Specialist) Team Members:

Yuji Itadori — Data Compilation Analyst

Megumi Fushiguro — Legal Budgeting Coordinator

Nobara Kugisaki — PR & Image Consultant

Toge Inumaki — Expense Forecasting Assistant

Panda — Risk Analysis Tech (AI interface consultant?)

I blinked. "Panda?"

Shoko gave me a knowing smirk. "You’ll see."

The open workspace was buzzing with chatter when I walked in, tablet in hand and nerves bundled tight in my chest. Maki had disappeared somewhere with her arms full of binders, leaving me to introduce myself on my own.

I spotted a pink headband first—Nobara, laughing as she leaned back in her chair with her boots propped up on the edge of her desk.

Next to her, a serious-looking guy with dark spiky hair—Megumi—glanced at his screen with a furrowed brow.

Across the room, a tall guy with pink hair—Yuji, I recognized him from the internal org chat—was balancing a coffee cup on his head while trying to type.

Behind him, a… very large panda. Typing. On a laptop.

I blinked. Hard.

He looked up and waved. "Yo. You the newbie?"

"...I guess I am."

I cleared my throat and took a small step forward, voice steady despite the chaos around me.

"Hi, everyone. I’m Y/N. I’ll be your lead for the upcoming financial proposal. I’m looking forward to working with all of you."

Yuji stood up instantly, grinning wide as he offered a handshake. "You don’t look scary at all! That’s a great start."

Nobara smirked. "Better than the last lead. That guy cried on day three."

Megumi gave a silent nod in greeting, while Toge—quiet in the corner with a tea thermos—just gave a thumbs up.

"Panda’s a risk analysis beast," Yuji whispered conspiratorially. "Don’t let the fur fool you."

I chuckled under my breath. This wasn’t what I expected.

But as they all turned their attention toward me, waiting for direction, I realized—this team wasn’t just quirky.

They were sharp. And if I played it right, we were going to crush next week’s meeting.

"Alright," I said, rolling my shoulders back with a small grin. "Let’s get to work."

—

"You guys already started on the mock proposal?" I asked, reaching out to grab the first stack of binders Yuji handed me. They were thick, color-coded, and already kind of intimidating.

"Yeah," Nobara said, chewing on the end of her pen. "We pulled data from last quarter and started formatting the layout. Fushiguro took lead on budgeting."

"Of course he did," I muttered, flipping open the first binder.

I started reading, letting my eyes scan over the numbers. The deeper I got, the more my brows began to knit. By the third binder, I was visibly squinting, my fingertips flipping faster, my pulse picking up.

"This is way out of budget," I said flatly, holding up one of the pages. "Like… way out. We can’t afford half of this. Who did this section?"

There was a long pause.

All fingers pointed—directly at Megumi.

He didn’t even look up from his seat. He just rolled his eyes, arms folding across his chest as he muttered, "What do you know? You’re just starting."

I turned to him, blinking slowly. "You gave the PR department a fifty-thousand yen margin for uniform aesthetics and an eighty-thousand yen surplus for—what is this—interior mood lighting for client ambiance?"

"It’s called long-term image projection," Megumi said, cool and unbothered.

"And I get that," I replied, holding up the original proposed budget side-by-side. "But not when it’s four times the pre-approved cap. The numbers don’t lie. We need to scale this back before corporate laughs us out of the building."

I exhaled slowly, then dragged over a whiteboard and clicked open a marker.

"Let’s go piece by piece. First: cut the lighting surplus by 60%. We’ll reclassify that as optional aesthetic additions under quarterly review. Second: uniforms stay, but custom tailoring? Gone."

Everyone began scrambling—typing, scribbling, highlighting as I listed item after item. For the next several hours, we tore through every line.

By the time the sun dipped low and the overhead office lights dimmed into a soft golden hue, it was just me and Nobara left in the conference room.

Shoko popped her head in, holding her usual cigarette in hand.

"You two better leave soon unless you want to get escorted out by security. They’re jumpy after hours."

"Right," I sighed, rubbing my temples. "Just finishing the last couple slides."

Nobara yawned dramatically, slamming her laptop shut. "I’m getting instant ramen after this. I deserve it."

I chuckled, grabbing my bag. "Bathroom first, then I’m heading out."

The hallway was quiet, lined with glass offices and dark-tinted doors. I moved quickly, but halfway there, I slowed.

Because someone was coming toward me.

Two women.

One of them—gorgeous.

No. Unreal.

She had long, snowy white hair, cascading in soft waves down her back. Her figure was all sharp curves poured into a wine-colored dress that hugged her hips and cinched perfectly at her waist. Her heels clicked elegantly against the floor, and her scent—God—was floral, like jasmine and warm honey.

We passed each other, and just before she turned the corner, her eyes met mine.

A pale violet color. Hypnotizing.

She offered me a soft, amused smile—knowing, like she’d caught me staring—and continued her conversation with the woman beside her like it was nothing.

I blinked, heart thudding, before rushing to the bathroom with my cheeks burning.

I slammed the door behind me and leaned over the sink, trying to catch my breath.

"Why are all the women here so hot?!" I hissed to myself in the mirror, running cold water over my wrists.

This job was going to be dangerous—but not for the reasons I thought.

--

THE LACK OF WLW INN JJKKK AAAAHHHHHH. I got bored.. so imma make a unhinged insane smuutty sexyyyy harem.. cuz free will. enjoy this new series!

[yanderslutt]

❝𝙄 𝙒𝘼𝙉𝙉𝘼 𝘽𝙀 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙂.𝙐.𝙔.❞

ryomen sukuna x f!reader | bdsm | ceo au | spicy & psychological

I'll lay down face up this time Under you like a G.U.Y.

based on the song g.u.y by lady gaga

cws: BDSM, explicit content, dominant/submissive themes, rough language, psychological power play, office dynamics.

summary ; For most of her life, sex had been… boring. Mechanical. Performative. Safe. She craved danger. She wanted to be taken. Not worshipped. Not loved. Just— Touched. Until her new boss walked in. Ryomen Sukuna is sin in a tailored suit. Every woman in the building fears him—and secretly wants to be the one he calls in last. And when he finally calls her in, it isn’t for a promotion. It’s to ruin her. "Get on the desk," he growls. "and bend over.. beg for me to touch you." Under the pulse of summer moonlight spilling through his office window, she surrenders. Face up. Back arched. Heart racing. She lets him pin her like a sacrifice. Lets him split her open like a battlefield. Because tonight, she isn’t just a woman. She’s his altar. And he’s the god who fucks her into ascension.

Touch me, touch me, don’t be shy... I’ll lay down face up this time—under you like a G.U.Y.

-

The room smelled like aftershave and vanilla candles—cheap ones she bought at the drugstore to make her apartment feel warmer than it really was. Soft light flickered across the walls, painting everything in muted amber. She lay there, skin still sticky with sweat, her bra tangled around her elbow, the sheets twisted between her legs like the scene of a gentle crime.

Nanami was next to her. Of course he was.

He always stayed after.

His chest rose and fell evenly as he breathed, bare and golden in the faint light. He was handsome—God, he was handsome. Polite. Stable. Thoughtful. The kind of man who made sure you came first. Always asked what you needed. Held your face when he kissed you like it was fragile china.

And yet… She stared up at the ceiling, blank eyes tracing the cracks in the plaster, and felt nothing. No ache. No fire. No lingering pulse of ruin between her thighs.

Only the ghost of what she wished she could feel.

"Are you okay?" his voice cut in, warm and soft, like butter melting over toast. She turned her head slowly.

He was watching her. Brows slightly pinched. Hand still resting on her hip like he didn’t want to startle her.

“Yeah,” she said, too fast. “I’m good.”

He smiled. Small. Sweet. The kind of smile that said I care about you, even if this was just a casual thing.

But that was the problem. It was always just sweet. Just gentle. Just good. And she didn’t want good. She wanted to be broken open. Undone. She wanted to crawl. To beg. To be forced to feel something that cracked her wide open.

Nanami kissed her shoulder, featherlight. “You sure? I can stay longer.”

She hesitated, then shook her head. “You don’t have to.”

She didn’t mean to sound cold. But she couldn’t fake it anymore.

He was a safe house when all she craved was a goddamn war.

Minutes later, she heard the front door shut behind him, the click of his shoes retreating down the hallway like a man who didn’t know he’d just been fired—not for what he lacked, but for what he could never be.

She sat up in the dark, her thighs still slightly sore from riding him, but not in the way she needed. Her hands curled around the edge of the mattress, grounding herself. Breathing in. Breathing out.

“Mount your goddess,” But he hadn’t. Not really. He kissed his goddess. She wanted someone who would claim her.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. A calendar reminder lit up the screen.

8:00 AM — First meeting with CEO Ryomen Sukuna.

She rolled her eyes throwing her phone on the nightstand.

She didn’t turn the lights back on.

She liked the dark. It made her feel more honest.

Her fingers ghosted over her nightstand drawer—second one down, under the cheap charger cords and unopened mail. She pulled out the worn paperback, its edges dog-eared, spine cracked from being opened too many times.

“Domination & the Devoted: A Guide to Power Exchange.” She’d bought it on a whim. Now she knew it better than her own reflection.

She flipped past the introductions, past the safe word lists and negotiation guides. She wasn’t new to this. Not mentally. She’d read enough to understand the difference between control and cruelty. And she didn’t want cruelty.

She wanted to be used. Worshipped by force. Tamed only to be unleashed.

Her thighs pressed together under the sheets.

She paused at a chapter called “Devotional Degradation: When Ownership Feels Like God.”

Her breath hitched. God. That was it.

Not the spanking or the toys or the whispered praise. Not the candle wax or breathplay or the leashes—though she wouldn’t mind any of that.

No, what she wanted—what she ached for—was ownership. To be told what to do. How to speak. How to come. To be slapped and then kissed after. To be ruined, then held. To be treated like a slut, but called his good girl.

Her hand skimmed down her stomach as she read.

“A submissive may crave being called ‘whore,’ ‘slut,’ or ‘toy,’ but only if it’s laced with care. That’s the paradox of the dynamic—destruction as devotion. The Dom says: You are mine to use because I know your worth. And I’ll show you your power by taking it away.”

Her eyes fluttered closed.

Fuck.

Why did that turn her on more than anything Nanami had ever whispered in bed?

She wanted her face shoved down into silk sheets while someone growled don’t you dare come yet into her ear.

She wanted to be bent over a desk, wrists bound behind her back, her breath caught between pain and permission. She wanted to be slapped—not hard, just enough—and hear good girl right after.

She wanted to serve, but not a man who needed to be worshipped.

A man who expected it.

Someone who wouldn’t ask. Wouldn’t wonder if she liked it. Would just know.

Her fingers dipped lower. Just a little. Teasing herself with thoughts she could never say aloud. Her mind drifted to a faceless man in a suit. Harsh voice. Hard hands. Cold smile. He calls her into his office. He tells her to kneel. He makes her wait—wet and wordless—until he’s good and ready.

She bites her lip. She shouldn’t be this aroused by the idea of being powerless. But maybe… just maybe… she wasn’t meant to be the one in charge. Maybe she was born to be under someone powerful enough to see the goddess in her— And mount her like she was his altar.

--

Her alarm went off at 6:30 sharp.

She didn’t snooze it.

This morning felt different—not because she expected change, but because she needed it. In her bones. In her bloodstream. She wanted the world to look at her and feel the same ache she carried under her skin.

She stood in front of her mirror, towel wrapped tight around her damp body, still flushed from a too-hot shower. Her closet hung open behind her, uninspiring. She’d worn it all before. Blouses. Slacks. Boring.

Not today.

Today, she dressed like a weapon.

She chose a black silk blouse—unbuttoned just enough to hint without giving too much away. A high-waisted pencil skirt that clung to every curve. She added sheer tights, black stilettos, and a thin gold chain around her throat like a leash no one had dared to tug.

A red lip. Sharp liner. Hair slicked back into a bun that said don’t fuck with me while whispering unless you’re brave enough to try.

She looked like a woman who could kill a man with a spreadsheet.

By 7:50 she was locking her apartment door, heels clicking with precision, the scent of amber and spice trailing in her wake. Her car started with a purr, and she drove through the city with one hand on the wheel and the other scrolling through morning emails at red lights.

The building rose ahead of her—sleek, mirrored glass, powerful in its quiet dominance. Just like the company that ran it. She parked, strutted through security, and took the elevator up like she’d done every other day before.

Administrative Task Force. It sounded more important than it was.

She handled confidential scheduling, travel requests, interdepartmental communication—anything that touched executive desks, she’d probably typed, filed, or tracked.

Whoever the new CEO was, she’d be close. Very close. Not that she cared.

Probably another overpaid, overhyped executive with cold eyes and an ego to match.

Her reflection in the elevator mirrored her thoughts—bored, flawless, and already planning to scroll Pinterest between assignments.

The doors opened to the top floor with a soft chime—

—and chaos greeted her.

Phones ringing. Heels slamming. Voices overlapping.

"He's already here—" "I need the onboarding forms—" "Who scheduled that meeting? He's gonna rip someone in half—"

She blinked.

Interns were practically sprinting. Executives straightening their ties with shaking hands. One woman dropped a whole stack of files trying to turn a corner too fast.

What the hell…?

She signed in at her usual checkpoint, nodding to the flustered HR manager who barely noticed her. Her stilettos clacked across the marble floors like punctuation—unbothered. She reached her desk and sat down with a sigh, unlocking her computer.

Another day. Another week of digital paperwork, memos, and mindless routine.

Unless…

Her eyes flicked toward the hallway—toward the black-glass double doors that now led to the CEO's office.

She hadn’t met him yet.

Didn’t even know his name.

But whatever—or whoever—was behind that door had the entire floor scrambling like a beast had been let loose.

She cracked her knuckles. Brought up her inbox. Pretended not to care.

But deep down… something shifted.

And she had no idea that soon, he’d be the one cracking her open— Not with code or protocol—

But with his hands. His voice. His power.

By 12:14 p.m., she was done with everything.

Emails—answered. Calendar—updated. Slack—cleared. Spreadsheet—spotless. Productivity—unmatched.

She stretched slowly at her desk, shoulders rolling with a little sigh. The chaos had died down, the rest of the floor settling into a nervous kind of quiet.

But the CEO?

Still hadn’t left his office.

Mysterious. Private. Dangerous.

He hadn’t been seen since arriving hours ago—only voices behind those dark glass doors, hushed commands and clipped words that made even the boldest execs shrink.

Whatever. He was probably just another cold tyrant with a god complex. Still… she was curious.

She opened Pinterest.

Nails. Outfits. BDSM quotes.

“He who controls your pleasure, owns your soul.” That one got saved.

She was so deep in her scrolling she didn’t even look up as she stood, grabbing her purse and her coffee like clockwork. Her heels clicked confidently toward the elevator.

And then she hit something solid.

No—someone.

Something unmovable. Warm. Tall. Dense like carved stone.

Her phone nearly slipped from her hand as she gasped, stumbling back a step, the scent of cedarwood and something sharp—like spice and blood—wrapping around her.

Her breath caught in her throat.

He towered over her.

At least 6'4". Muscled. Built like sin. Sharp jaw, thick arms straining the seams of his black dress shirt, tattoos curling up the side of his neck. Pink hair. Scars. Eyes the color of hell itself.

Bright. Red. Unblinking.

“Watch it,” he said, voice low and rumbling. Like thunder just before it splits the sky.

She froze.

Her body didn’t move—but her skin reacted violently. Goosebumps across her arms. A sudden ache between her thighs.

This wasn’t a man. This was a force.

Her lips parted, breath shallow. Her eyes couldn’t decide where to look—his face? His chest? The ink that curled over his collarbone?

“I—” she stammered. “Sorry. I didn’t see you—”

His gaze dropped, slowly, dragging down the front of her blouse… to her skirt… to her legs. He didn’t speak.

He didn’t have to.

Her pulse pounded.

Mount your goddess. Get on top of me.

Her own saved lyrics echoed in her skull like prophecy.

She straightened, swallowing the heat rising in her chest.

“I was just heading to lunch,” she muttered, voice smaller now. Embarrassed. Flustered. Weak.

One of his hands lifted—and for a moment, she thought he might touch her.

But he didn’t.

He reached behind her, pressed the elevator button, and leaned in close—so close his breath touched the side of her neck.

“Don’t let it happen again,” he said.

Then he smirked.

The doors slid open with a ding.

He stepped in, turned to face her, and let the doors close with that same quiet smile on his lips—like he already knew how she sounded when she begged.

And just like that—

Her lunch break was ruined.

But her fantasies had just begun.

The breakroom was quiet, save for the faint buzz of fluorescent lights overhead and the hum of the mini fridge kicking on in the corner. She sat at the far table, legs crossed, slowly unwrapping her turkey sandwich like it was a task she barely had the strength to perform.

Her mind wasn’t here.

Not on the dry bread or the plastic cup of room-temp water next to her. Not on the unread notifications stacked in her inbox.

No.

Her body was sitting in a breakroom.

But her mind was pressed up against that elevator door, trapped between muscle and heat and that voice—low, commanding, lethal. Sukuna.

Even his name felt like a bruise.

Her thighs squeezed together beneath the table, involuntarily. The way he looked at her—down, like she was a toy to be examined. The faint trace of a smirk. The way he leaned in without touching her, knowing it would wreck her just the same.

She blinked hard, breath shallow, and took a bite of her sandwich without tasting it.

Her phone vibrated next to her lunch tray. She snatched it quickly, like she’d been waiting for something. Anything.

But it was nothing—an ad, a promo, a useless buzz.

Still… her fingers moved. Her thumb tapped the search bar. Curiosity was a dangerous thing.

“Ryomen Sukuna.”

She hit enter.

And there he was.

Age: 30 Height: 6'4 Status: Unmarried. No children. Education: Unknown. Occupation: CEO of the S.R. Group—real estate, entertainment, global holdings. Net worth: Over $700 million. Infamous for hostile takeovers, ruthless negotiation tactics, and a tendency to fire entire departments without blinking. Known aliases: The War King. The Silent Blade.

Hot. Rich. Unattached.

Her mouth went dry. Her fingers hovered over the screen as she clicked through photos—dark suits, ink peeking out from his collar, arms always folded, eyes always cold.

And then she found a video.

A press conference. Three months ago. His voice smooth, deadly, with a hint of amusement in every syllable. He spoke to reporters like they were children. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t fidget.

He owned the room. Without lifting a single fucking finger.

She shivered.

Her mind betrayed her—again.

Sukuna’s hand, gripping her throat. Her wrists tied behind her back with his tie. His voice in her ear: “Spread your legs wider. You’re my toy now.” His fingers dragging along the inside of her thigh while she cried out into his desk.

She exhaled shakily.

She was twenty-one. Still learning what made her wet. Still figuring out what she liked and what she needed. And yet—

She’d never felt more certain. She didn’t want boys anymore. She didn’t want gentle hands and soft sighs.

She wanted Sukuna.

Hard. Cruel. Experienced.

She wanted to be ruined by a man who didn’t ask permission— Who took one look at her and decided: Yes. That one. Mine.

She slid her phone under the table and shut her legs slowly. Her skin still tingled, her pulse fluttering against her collarbone.

Lunch was over. But her appetite?

Just beginning.

She walked back into the office still flushed from her not-so-innocent lunch break.

Her pulse hadn’t slowed.

Sukuna’s face was still behind her eyelids every time she blinked—those blood-red eyes, the curl of that smirk, the sheer size of him. She could still feel the heat radiating off his chest where she’d collided with him. Her skin felt branded.

She sat at her desk, fingers hovering over her keyboard, pretending to read an email. She barely registered her coworkers moving around her. Her focus was shot. Every nerve felt tuned to something higher. Like the air had shifted.

Ding.

Her company chat blinked in the corner of her screen.

[From: R. Sukuna]

Come to my office.

That was it.

No punctuation. No context. No “please.”

She didn’t hesitate.

She stood, straightened her skirt, and made her way to the black-glass double doors at the end of the hallway. Her heart was in her throat. Her palms slightly damp.

The door opened before she could knock.

He was behind his desk. Leaning back in a sleek, black leather chair. Legs spread. One arm draped lazily over the armrest. The other holding a pen he twirled between his fingers like he had all the time in the world.

And he was smiling.

Slow. Wide. Knowing.

“Sit,” he said.

Her knees bent before her mind registered the movement. She crossed the room, lowered herself into the chair facing him, and tried to control her breathing. Her hands stayed neatly folded in her lap.

Why am I so nervous? Why am I… this turned on?

“I’ve been reviewing internal records,” he said, voice smooth like whiskey poured over ice. “Seems you’ve been here longer than almost anyone else on this floor.”

She blinked. “Yes, sir.”

God, the sir just fell out of her mouth.

His grin sharpened. “Good. Then you’ll appreciate this.”

He placed a white folder on his desk, tapping it once.

“I’m creating a new position,” he continued. “Executive Administrative Assistant. The job comes with… perks. Higher pay. Flexible hours. Direct access to me.”

Direct access.

Her breath caught. Was it just her imagination or did his tone dip on that last word?

“And I want you in that role,” he said. “Effective immediately.”

She stared at him.

“I—I don’t know what to say.”

“You say yes.”

That voice. Deep. Calm. But absolute. Like he already knew the answer.

“I accept,” she breathed.

“Good girl.”

Her stomach flipped.

His voice was silk wrapped around something dangerous. He stood, slow and deliberate, walking around the desk with silent steps. He picked up the folder and offered it out to her.

“Come grab the letter,” he said. “And take your time. I want to watch you follow instructions.”

She stood slowly, crossing the space between them, every step feeling heavier under his gaze.

Her hand reached out. She took the folder.

Their fingers brushed.

His smirk deepened.

Every command he’d spoken—she had followed. Instinctively. Without resistance.

--

Two weeks later.

Working for Ryomen Sukuna was like working for a god who refused to speak unless he had something lethal to say.

His commands were short. His expectations, immaculate. He didn’t repeat himself. He didn’t praise. He didn’t ask. But he always noticed.

And you’d learned that quickly.

You were efficient now. A machine. Notes organized, calls screened, itineraries prepared to the second. You knew what kind of espresso he liked. Which brand of cigarettes he smoked when he stayed late. The exact shade of crimson that meant he was thinking about destroying someone in a meeting.

You weren’t just his assistant.

You were his second breath.

But today, something went wrong.

Terribly, terribly wrong.

You had left a file behind. Not just any file. The file.

The fiscal projection report for a key investor meeting—the one he’d told you explicitly to prepare, highlight, and have waiting on his desk before 9:00 AM sharp.

It was 8:56. And the file was nowhere to be found.

You flipped through drawers. Checked the copier room. The kitchen. Even the damn recycling bin. Papers scattered across your desk as you muttered to yourself, your chest tightening with every second that passed.

No, no, no. I had it. I had it last night—

You had worked late printing it. You remembered placing it in your folder. You remembered walking it to your desk—

But then what?

Panic clawed at your throat.

The entire office floor felt colder, sharper. The sound of your heels pacing had become frantic, erratic. You were sweating through your silk blouse.

Sukuna’s office door was still closed. The meeting was scheduled for 9:05.

You glanced at the clock.

9:01.

Your stomach turned.

You paused, both hands gripping the edge of your desk, knuckles white. You could lie. Say it was in the printer. Blame someone else. Or buy yourself a few more minutes.

But no. He would see through it. He always did.

He hated excuses.

And for reasons you still couldn’t explain—you wanted his trust. Maybe even his disappointment, but never his disrespect.

You smoothed your skirt, gathered every scrap of composure you had left, and walked to his door.

Your knock was quiet.

His voice came through like a blade behind velvet.

“Come in.”

You stepped in, closed the door behind you, and faced him. He stood by the window, black suit tailored within an inch of its life, back turned. The city stretched out behind him like prey.

He didn’t look at you. Not yet.

You swallowed hard. “I need to tell you something.”

A beat of silence. Then he turned.

Blood-red eyes pinned you where you stood. Calm. Calculated. Hungry.

“I lost the file,” you said softly. “The one for the Asakura meeting. I had it. I… I must’ve misplaced it, and I’m still looking but—”

You didn’t finish.

You couldn’t.

Your voice cracked.

He said nothing at first.

Just looked at you.

The silence between you stretched until it felt like a noose. His gaze flicked over you—not just your face, but your posture, your hands nervously twitching at your sides, the way your eyes faltered under the weight of his.

You waited for the reprimand. For the anger. For the dismissal.

But it never came.

Instead, he stepped closer.

One hand reached up—slowly, deliberately—and brushed your collarbone with the back of his fingers, just once, like he was inspecting a crack in his favorite possession.

“And what do you think I should do with you,” he murmured, “for disappointing me?”

Your breath hitched.

His tone wasn’t angry.

It was curious. Teasing. Like he already knew what he wanted, and was just giving you the illusion of choice.

You couldn't speak.

Because deep down, you wanted to be punished. Not fired. Not written up. But punished.

In the way only he could.

He didn’t say anything else.

Not as you stood frozen in the thick silence. Not as your apology hung heavy in the air, guilt weighing down your shoulders like lead.

He just looked at you. One long, unreadable stare.

And then—without a word—he turned and walked past you. Grabbed his jacket. Slid it on with that effortless dominance that made your pulse stutter. And as he passed his desk, he picked up the file.

Your heart stopped.

Wait—

You blinked, stunned, watching as he tucked it under his arm like it had never gone missing at all.

He didn’t even look back.

Only at the door did he pause, hand on the handle. His voice came low. Sharp.

“You were reckless, leaving something that important out in the open.”

“I—” you started, throat tight, “I didn’t mean to. I thought—”

“Intent doesn’t matter,” he interrupted, finally turning his head, his eyes gleaming with something darker now. “Mistakes like that have consequences.”

He held your gaze.

“We'll discuss yours later.”

And then he was gone.

The door clicked shut behind him with a finality that made your knees nearly give out.

He had the file the whole time. He let you panic. Let you spiral. Let you confess.

And now—you owed him.

The realization hit you like a collar snapping around your throat. He’d played you. Not cruelly. Not maliciously.

Intentionally.

You collapsed back into the guest chair, pulse still racing, thighs trembling beneath your skirt. Shame burned hot in your chest—but beneath it was something worse. Something wetter. Deeper.

Need.

We’ll discuss yours later.

What did that mean?

Discipline? A write-up?

Or something else entirely.

You stared at the door he’d just walked through. The one only you were ever called into. The one that had now become something of a gate… to the edge of a very dangerous line.

And you were going to cross it.

You were already halfway over.

The sun had set by the time he returned.

You heard his footsteps first—slow, deliberate, echoing like a metronome of dread across the top floor marble. The office had long emptied out. You were the only one still here.

And he knew it.

The door to his office opened with a soft click.

“Inside,” Sukuna said.

One word. And your whole body responded.

You stood. Walked. Entered the lair like a girl summoned to the altar.

The lights were dim. The city bled in through the windows behind him—his silhouette cast in gold and blood-red hues. His jacket was off. Shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows. Veins flexing down his forearms. That same file—the one he’d stolen from your desk—sat perfectly aligned on the corner.

You stepped in.

“Close the door.”

You did. Quietly.

He didn’t look at you yet. Just circled behind his desk, slow, smooth, pulling something from a drawer. You couldn’t see what it was.

Your breath caught in your throat.

“You panicked today,” he said, voice low. Controlled. “You lost control of yourself.”

You nodded. “I did.”

“Do you know what I hate more than mistakes?”

You shook your head, lips parted.

“Lying,” he said darkly. “And weakness. And you…” His eyes finally met yours. “You were both.”

“I told you the truth.”

“Only after you ran yourself ragged looking for something I already had.”

You swallowed hard. “That’s not fair—”

“It wasn’t a test, darling,” he interrupted, moving toward you. “It was a lesson.”

He stood in front of you now. Close. The heat of him crawled over your skin like a fever.

“And now you need to be taught how to behave.”

He reached behind you. A soft click. The door locked.

“Take off your skirt.”

You froze. He didn’t ask twice.

Your hands moved before your brain could argue. You reached behind your waist, unzipped the skirt, and let it fall to the floor. His eyes dropped to your thighs—his gaze was fire.

“No panties,” he murmured.

You flushed. “They were… uncomfortable.”

He smirked, stepping behind you. “So are consequences.”

You didn’t see it coming—his hand in your hair, gripping, pulling you back just enough to expose your throat.

“What are you?”

You gasped. “Y-Yours.”

“Good girl.”

He pulled a length of silk rope from the desk and wrapped it around your wrists with terrifying precision—binding you, testing the tension, sliding one finger between the knot and your skin like he’d done it a thousand times before.

“You follow orders so well,” he said, guiding you to his desk. “But now you’ll learn what it means to be trained.”

He bent you over the smooth wood. Face down. Arms bound. Legs trembling.

“Don’t move. Not unless I tell you to.”

You whimpered. He didn’t give you time to breathe.

His hand came down hard on your ass—a loud smack. Sharp. Clean. Your body jolted, and you cried out, heat blooming under your skin. Another slap. Then another.

Each one was followed by his hand smoothing over the sting like he owned the pain he gave you.

“Count.”

“O-One…”

Smack.

“Two…”

Smack.

“Three—fuck—”

He leaned in, voice in your ear. “That’s three for carelessness. The rest? For forgetting who you belong to.”

He parted your thighs roughly. His fingers slid between them, already soaked.

“Look at this mess,” he murmured. “Dripping like a needy whore just from being punished.”

You moaned into the desk.

He gripped the nape of your neck, pushing you down harder against the desk.

“Quiet now.”

His hand slid down the curve of your back, tracing the trembling shape of your body. Then lower. Between your thighs.

Fingers dragged through your folds, deliberately slow.

“Soaking,” he growled. “You’re soaked from a spanking.”

You whimpered. “I—I can’t help it—”

“I didn’t ask for excuses.”

And with no further warning, two of his fingers plunged inside you.

You choked on a moan, back arching, face burning.

His pace was brutal from the start—deep, curling, purposeful. He knew exactly where to press, exactly how to split you open with his fingers alone. His palm slapped wetly against you with each thrust, obscene, humiliating.

“That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” he sneered. “Not soft hands. Not kisses. You want a man to ruin you with his fingers like you’re nothing but a hole to keep wet and obedient.”

“Yes—Sukuna, please—”

“Fucking pathetic.”

He thrust harder. You could barely breathe.

His free hand wrapped around your throat and squeezed—just enough to make the room blur.

“You like being used?”

“Y-yes—”

“Beg for it.”

You sobbed, legs shaking. “Please—Sukuna!—please use me, I’ll do better, I promise, I’ll never forget anything again—just please don’t stop—please, I need it—”

His fingers curled deep and just right.

“You come when I say.”

Your body was already clenching around him. The edge hit like a tsunami—sudden, sharp, devastating.

“Not yet.”

You cried out, shaking with the effort to hold it in.

“Look at you,” he growled against your ear. “Tied up, dripping down my fingers, too fucking dumb with need to think straight.”

Your thighs trembled violently, your orgasm burning just beneath the surface.

Then his pace changed—faster. Meaner.

“Come.”

The permission snapped whatever restraint you had left.

You shattered—eyes rolling back, mouth falling open in a silent scream as your body collapsed over the desk. You felt yourself clench around his fingers, overstimulated and gasping, tears pricking your eyes as he kept going, even as your body bucked against him.

“That’s right,” he whispered darkly. “Come hard. That’s the only way you learn.”

When he finally pulled his fingers from you, your slick clung to them. He brought them to your lips.

“Open.”

You obeyed.

He pushed them past your tongue, and you moaned around them—tasting yourself. Humiliated. Humbled.

Owned.

He stepped back, watching you with those burning red eyes, his voice low.

“Next time you disappoint me,” he said, “you’ll take it on your knees.”

He walked back to his desk like nothing had happened.

And you— Shaking. Ruined. Could only hope there was a next time.

-

sooo.. pt 2? maybe a series? i was craving some bdsm sukuna.. ugh.. the gates QUICK I AM FLOODINGGG

[yanderslutt]

“𝗕𝘂𝘁 𝗵𝗲’𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗯𝗲𝘁𝘄𝗲𝗲𝗻 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗹𝗲𝗴𝘀 𝗮𝘁 𝗮 𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝗹𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁… 𝗶𝘀 𝗵𝗲?”

pt 4

➤ yandere!eren x single mom!reader x yandere! levi

read pt 1 here ; pt 2 ; pt 3

The morning sun peeked through the blinds like a nosy neighbor.

Y/N stood in the cramped kitchen, the weak overhead light buzzing above her. She pulled open the top of a worn cereal box—then another—until she reached the right one. Her fingers moved quickly, quietly, pulling out the bundle of cash wrapped in plastic. Tucked between two sleeves of stale Frosted Flakes.

She peeled off just enough to cover rent. The rest? Reburied beneath artificial sugar and cardboard.

Safe. For now.

Ren sat at the table, drawing stick figures with wild spiky hair, humming to himself.

“C’mon, baby,” Y/N said gently. “Let’s go find you some new daycare clothes.”

The mall was a mess of neon sales signs and impatient parents, but Ren didn’t seem to mind. He twirled around in circles every time they passed a mannequin, pointed at hats too big for him, and giggled at the shoe store that had wheels built into the displays.

Y/N kept a sharp eye on the price tags. Clearance rack. Discount bin. She wasn’t ashamed of being frugal—not anymore.

They were in line at the food court when Ren tugged on her sleeve.

“Mommy,” he whispered loudly, pointing. “Look!”

Her heart stopped.

Eren.

Sitting at a table near the glass rail, one arm slung casually over the chair, coffee in hand, hood up like he was trying not to be noticed. He was watching. Of course he was.

She clenched her jaw, holding Ren’s hand tighter as they walked over.

“Are you serious?” she hissed under her breath the moment she was close enough. “You’re following me now?”

“I’m protecting you,” Eren said smoothly, not looking at her. “There’s a difference.”

“You promised—”

“I didn’t promise shit.” He took a sip of his coffee, eyes dragging over to Ren. “I just said it was only that day.”

“Hi again,” Ren chirped brightly, waving.

Eren grinned—lazy and dangerous. “Hey, kid.”

Ren turned to you with puppy eyes. “Can he eat with us? Please?”

Y/N bit the inside of her cheek. Smile, she told herself. Pretend.

“Would you like to eat with us, Eren?” she asked tightly.

His gaze flicked up to hers. That damn smirk never left.

“Sure,” he said. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

The food court bustled around them — trays clattering, kids screaming over the buzz of blenders. But at that small corner table tucked beneath the skylight, time seemed to slow.

Ren sat between them, happily swinging his legs as he munched on chicken nuggets and fries.

Eren had ordered everything.

Y/N hadn’t even noticed him disappear until he returned, sliding a plastic tray onto the table without a word. Extra ketchup. Juice box. A side of curly fries she never asked for.

“I didn’t need—”

“You’re welcome,” he said flatly, unwrapping his sandwich like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Ren was already diving in, giggling between bites, wiping sauce on his shirt.

“So,” Eren said casually, glancing over the rim of his soda cup. “How’s daycare?”

“Fun!” Ren grinned. “We colored today. I made a robot dog.”

“Nice.” Eren leaned back. “Bet he’s got laser eyes.”

“Two!”

Y/N watched the exchange in silence, heart tight in her chest. She hated how natural it looked. Eren laughing low under his breath. Ren talking a mile a minute. The ease. The warmth.

It felt… wrong.

Safe wasn’t supposed to look like this.

“So,” Eren murmured, voice low enough only she could hear. “You still think I don’t belong here?”

She glared at him, lips tight around her straw.

He smiled.

“Just asking,” he shrugged.

“I think you like playing pretend,” she said quietly. “But it won’t last. It never does.”

Eren didn’t reply. He just looked at her for a long moment, the air between them stretching thin.

Then—

“Hey, bud,” he said suddenly, turning back to Ren. “You know what I used to eat when I was your age?”

Ren shook his head, crumbs on his cheeks.

“Spaghetti sandwiches.”

Ren made a face. “That’s weird.”

“It’s genius,” Eren said, mock-offended. “You’ll understand when you’re older.”

They both laughed.

Y/N didn't.

But something inside her softened. Just a little.

And that terrified her more than anything.

The car purred as it pulled up to the curb — a sleek, foreign beast with blacked-out windows and leather seats that still smelled new.

Eren parked with one hand lazily draped over the wheel, the other resting near the gear shift like he had nowhere better to be. Not a single sound but the faint thrum of the engine and Ren humming to himself in the backseat, swinging his legs.

Y/N glanced out the window.

The street was quiet.

Her apartment complex stood in the amber glow of a flickering streetlamp — run-down but familiar. The cracked pavement. The ivy choking the fence. A place where nothing was perfect, but everything was hers.

Ren unbuckled and slid out of the backseat, already skipping toward the building with his dinosaur backpack bouncing.

Eren didn’t say anything at first. Just stared ahead, the city’s reflection ghosting across his windshield.

Then, his voice — calm. Inevitable.

“Be ready by noon tomorrow.”

She inhaled, eyes heavy with dread.

“That soon?”

He finally looked at her, his gaze dark but unreadable.

“I was nice today.”

Her jaw tensed, but she nodded. Quietly.

And for a single, flickering second… she didn’t feel like prey.

She stepped out of the car, slamming the door a little harder than she meant to. His engine rumbled once before peeling off into the night, leaving the air colder than before.

She hadn’t even made it to her door before she heard—

“You’re out late,” Historia called softly from across the walkway, clutching a hoodie around herself, keys dangling from her hand. “Didn’t you say bedtime was eight sharp?”

Y/N gave a breathless laugh, defeated.

“Tonight was… different.”

Historia paused, reading her face like a book she had already re-read a dozen times.

“You wanna talk about it?”

Y/N looked at her front door. Looked at the dim light behind the curtains.

Then nodded.

“Yeah. Come in.”

The apartment was quiet when they entered, Ren already passed out on the couch, one sock halfway off, a juice box still clutched in his small hand.

Y/N pulled a blanket over him before collapsing onto the kitchen chair. Historia grabbed two glasses and poured whatever wine was left from the dusty bottle on the counter.

She slid one over.

“So,” Historia said gently, “who’s the guy in the Batmobile?”

Y/N gave her a look. “Please don’t joke.”

“Sorry.”

A silence.

Historia stared at her.

Y/N stared into her wine.

Then finally, in a whisper:

“I think I’m in deep.”

Historia’s smile faded.

“Like… Levi-deep?”

Y/N shook her head. “No. Not like that. Eren’s not… him. But it’s getting close. The jobs are piling up. He’s watching me. And I can’t breathe sometimes.”

Historia set down her glass.

“Then leave.”

“I can’t. He has photos. Info. He knows everything.”

Historia went quiet.

“And worse,” Y/N added, choking back something unspoken, “Ren likes him.”

Historia looked up sharply.

“That’s not your fault.”

“But it’s dangerous. It’s confusing. And today, just for a minute, it felt normal. Like I wasn’t running. Like we were a—” she cut herself off, voice cracking.

“A family?” Historia said quietly.

Y/N nodded. Shame washing through her like acid.

Historia stood slowly, walking over and kneeling next to her.

“You’re allowed to want peace,” she whispered. “You’re allowed to want someone who stays. But this—” she squeezed her hand, “—this isn't the way to get it.”

Y/N’s eyes burned, heart torn between the safety she craved and the storm she was in.

Tomorrow would bring more chaos.

But tonight…

She let herself rest.

Just for a second.

—

The rain was merciless.

It crashed down like punishment — soaking the city in cold sheets, painting the pavement in streaks of silver. Y/N’s hood was pulled up, but it did nothing. Water clung to her lashes, slid down her cheeks like tears she refused to cry. Her boots splashed through puddles as she moved fast, heart hammering.

She had the package.

Wrapped in a plastic lining, tucked under her coat like a second skin — heavy, warm, and dense.

She didn’t ask what was in it. She never did.

Eren told her to take it to the old loading dock behind the abandoned textile mill — the one near the edge of the river, where no security cameras watched and the concrete crumbled like old bones.

And now here she was.

She ducked under a broken chain-link fence, the razor wire curling like thorns above her head. Mud soaked into her jeans. Her fingers were trembling, but she didn’t stop.

The drop spot was an old rusted drum — exactly as Eren said. No one else was around. No voices. No shadows.

Just the rain. And the river. And the sound of her pulse pounding in her ears.

She knelt and shoved the package inside, sealing it with a strip of black tape. Her hands were raw and slick with rainwater, her throat dry.

It was done.

She stood up, slowly, wiping her palms against her thighs. Her breathing was shallow. Not from fear—but adrenaline. The kind that made her feel alive. Or sick. She wasn’t sure anymore.

She turned toward the river, its current roaring in the distance. She slumped against the crumbling brick wall of the building, head tilted back as the rain hit her full in the face.

Just one minute, she thought.

One minute to feel something other than panic.

One minute to exist.

And then—

His voice.

Low. Calm. Unmistakable.

“You’re getting good at this.”

She flinched, eyes shooting open.

Eren stood a few feet away under the cover of a cracked awning — dry, smug, cigarette lit between his lips. His hair was damp at the ends, curls darkened by the weather, but he looked untouched by it all. As if the storm didn’t dare to touch him.

“Jesus,” she breathed, hand over her chest. “You scared the hell out of me.”

He walked closer. Slow. Deliberate.

“Then maybe hell’s got a familiar face.”

She scoffed. “You always show up like this?”

He shrugged, flicking ash onto the wet ground.

“Only when I’m impressed.”

She rolled her eyes and looked back toward the river.

“I didn’t sign up for this.”

“No,” he said, pausing. “You just never walked away.”

She turned her head sharply, eyes locking onto his.

“I didn’t have a choice.”

Eren stepped forward again, close enough for the scent of smoke and spice to wrap around her in the cold.

“Everyone has a choice,” he said. “But you keep choosing me.”

Her breath caught.

“I’m choosing my son,” she bit out. “This is survival.”

He leaned in, voice a whisper at her ear.

“Then why do you look so alive right now?”

She froze.

Because he wasn’t wrong.

The rain. The fear. The thrill. It was changing her — slowly, irrevocably. She was starting to crave the control. The power of being needed.

And Eren saw it. All of it.

He pulled something from his coat — another wad of cash. Clean. Crisp. Rubber band still wrapped tight.

“Payment,” he said, pressing it into her hand. “You earned it.”

She looked down at it. Then back up at him.

“What was in the package?”

He cocked his head.

“Don’t ask questions. Stay in your place.”

Her jaw tensed.

“I’m not your puppet.”

He stepped back, smirking.

“Want a ride?” he called out casually behind her.

She didn’t even look back. “You had a fucking car this whole time?” she snapped, throwing her hands in the air. “I’m out here playing drug mule in a goddamn hurricane—”

Eren chuckled. “And you’re still beautiful when you’re pissed.”

“Bite me, Jaeger,” she muttered, storming toward the cracked sidewalk.

A low whistle followed her.

“You really wanna walk home like that? In the dark? Soaked. Alone. With someone following you?”

She froze for half a second.

But she didn’t turn around.

She kept walking.

That’s when his voice dropped—low, sharp, and edged with something that made her spine stiffen.

“Get in the car, Y/N.”

She hesitated.

That voice… it wasn’t playful anymore. It wasn’t teasing.

It was commanding.

Possessive.

Dangerous.

She glanced over her shoulder, meeting his eyes.

He leaned against the sleek black car, drenched only at the edges, arms crossed over his chest. Raindrops glistened on his jawline as he raised an eyebrow at her.

“I’d hate for you to slip,” he said coolly. “Or for someone else to pick you up first.”

Her pulse jumped.

She rolled her eyes hard, biting down on her frustration. “You’re such an ass.”

But she turned.

And walked straight to the passenger side.

He popped the door open before she touched the handle.

“Smart girl,” he murmured.

She slid into the seat, arms crossed, dripping onto the leather as he started the engine. Warm air blasted through the vents, and she hated—hated—how good it felt.

Eren glanced over, smirking. “See? Not so bad having me around, is it?”

Y/N glared at the windshield. “Shut up and drive.”

He did.

But the grin on his face said he already won.

—

The ride was quiet at first.

The only sounds were the soft hum of tires on wet pavement and the windshield wipers beating in rhythm to the storm. Eren drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, eyes flicking between the road and her.

She stayed quiet, arms crossed, her gaze locked out the passenger window.

But he spoke anyway.

“So…”

His voice was smooth. Too casual.

“…you talk to Levi lately?”

Y/N’s jaw flexed.

There it was.

The real reason he came.

She didn’t answer. Didn’t blink. Didn’t give him the satisfaction of reacting.

Eren grinned.

“Right,” he said under his breath, licking his bottom lip. “That’s a no. Or maybe that’s a 'none of your business.'”

His fingers tapped once more, then stopped.

“You know, the silence kind of says more than anything you could say out loud.”

Her eyes flicked to him just once. “Maybe you should focus on your side of the street instead of sniffing around mine.”

He laughed. It was low. Dangerous. Like a wolf humored by a rabbit trying to bite back.

“I’m not jealous, sweetheart,” he said, voice dipped in amusement. “I just like to know who’s sniffing around what’s mine.”

Y/N scoffed. “I’m not yours.”

The red light ahead glowed through the rain.

The car slowed.

And stopped.

Without a word, Eren leaned toward her—hand sliding from the gearshift to her thigh, fingers spreading possessively over the soaked denim. His grip was firm. His body radiated heat.

She inhaled sharply, heart kicking in her chest.

He turned his head.

Their faces were close now. Too close.

And his voice—when he spoke—was a quiet, intimate threat.

“You keep acting like Levi’s the one you should be afraid of,” he murmured, his thumb brushing slow circles against her inner thigh. “But he’s not the one with his hand between your legs at a red light… is he?”

Y/N’s lips parted—but no words came out.

Eren leaned in a little closer. His breath was warm against her ear.

“You should be a lot more scared of me, baby.”

The light turned green.

He pulled back like nothing happened, shifting gears, hand leaving her thigh.

The car surged forward.

But Y/N didn’t breathe again until they were halfway down the block.

And even then… she couldn’t stop shaking.

The tires crunched to a slow stop in front of her apartment complex.

Rain slicked down the windshield, painting the outside world in streaks of gray and neon haze. The low hum of the engine buzzed in her bones. Y/N moved to unbuckle her seatbelt, reaching for the door—

But Eren shifted in his seat.

Turned toward her.

His elbow rested lazily against the steering wheel, one hand on the gearshift. That same smirk danced at the corners of his lips—lazy, smug, and laced with something darker.

He glanced down at her thighs, then up again, gaze dragging slow and unashamed.

“Tell me somethin’,” he said low, voice smooth like a sin.

Her fingers froze on the door handle.

He leaned just a little closer, eyes half-lidded, lip catching between his teeth before he spoke again.

“You ever get off on the danger?” he asked. “Or is it just me that gets you that fuckin' breathless?”

Y/N’s throat tightened.

The silence between them cracked open like thunder, but she didn’t reply. Couldn’t.

He grinned, satisfied with her quiet.

“Thought so,” he muttered.

And just like that, he leaned back, shifted gears, and slammed his foot on the gas.

The car peeled away from the curb before she even made it up the stairs—leaving her standing in the rain, jaw clenched, pulse still hammering like it wanted out of her chest.

He didn’t need to touch her again.

He already knew—

She was unraveling.

And he was the one pulling the thread.

The rain had slowed to a fine mist by the time Y/N reached the corner near Ren’s daycare. Her coat clung to her skin, the weight of everything—from the job, the ride, the words Eren left her with—settling in her bones like the cold.

She turned the block with a quickened pace, already checking the time on her burner. If she was even five minutes late, they'd tack on a fine—money she couldn’t afford to lose, not when she was stashing it between cereal boxes and paying rent in half cash.

And that’s when she collided with someone.

Hard.

“Oof—!”

She stumbled back, blinking up—

Straight into the chest of a man.

A very tall, broad-shouldered man. He gasped softly, his large hands instinctively reaching out to steady her by the arms.

“Shit—I’m so sorry,” he said immediately, his voice deep, but calm. Warm. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

Y/N shook her head, brushing wet strands from her face, her breath catching from the jolt. “No, I—I wasn’t either. Sorry.”

The man gave a sheepish smile, then laughed under his breath, stepping back. He smelled like money—rich, clean cologne clinging to a tailored trench coat. Blonde hair damp from the rain curled slightly at his ears. His shoes were too expensive for this neighborhood, and the watch on his wrist definitely wasn't fake.

“I should’ve been more careful,” he said again, tone sincere. Then his eyes flicked to the bag at her hip and the tension in her shoulders. “You in a rush?”

She nodded, hugging her coat tighter around herself. “Picking up my son. Daycare charges a late fee if you’re even a minute past six.”

He smiled again—soft this time, something flickering behind his eyes. “Been there. My niece used to give me hell if I was late.”

Y/N gave a small smile in return. She didn’t usually stop to chat, but something about his presence wasn’t threatening—at least not on the surface. He held himself like someone used to command. But not in the way Eren did.

“I’m Reiner, by the way,” he said, offering a hand.

She hesitated for only half a second before shaking it. His grip was firm. Warm.

“Y/N.”

“Nice to meet you, Y/N,” he said, eyes kind—but they lingered a little too long. “You live around here?”

She nodded once, keeping it vague.

“Safe neighborhood?”

“Safe enough.”

He hummed, tucking his hands into his coat pockets. “Glad to hear it. We’ve had a few… incidents reported nearby. Just wanted to be sure.”

Her heart skipped.

That wasn’t casual.

But before she could ask what he meant, he smiled again. “Well, don’t let me keep you. Wouldn’t want your kid to think he’s been abandoned.”

Y/N forced a polite laugh. “Yeah. Wouldn’t want that.”

As she walked off, she felt his eyes linger for a moment longer than necessary.

Reiner didn’t turn around until she was at the daycare door.

Only then did he reach into his pocket and pull out his phone.

[SUBJECT IDENTIFIED.]

Name: Y/N [REDACTED]. Confirmed visual. Proceeds with caution. Surveillance continues.

--

taglist ; comment 2 b tagged. @hadtobeconfronted ; jaegsnicotine ; @tojiswifeforlife ; @ree5ep3ace @lostfirefly ; @nooshie11037 ; @thebestwnostress ; @alebrasil0101 ; @talia-scar123 ; @msjaeger ; @feral-childs-word ; @fatcouchpotato ; @angeldevotee

mwah,

[yanderslutt]

𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐥𝐥 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐞… 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭?

pt 10 of professor reader x yandere ! college student gojo satoru

read pt 1 ; read pt 2 ; read pt 3 ; read pt 4 ; pt 5 ; pt 6 ; pt 7 ; pt 8 ; pt 9 ; pt 10

a/n : I recommend reading all parts to get the whole story.

cw's: yandere behavior, manipulation, infidelity, obsessive thoughts, emotional coercion, sexual content, explicit language, obsession, emotional manipulation, possessive behavior, praise kink, delusional fantasies, yandere! gojo, infidelity themes, obsession, married!professor x student dynamic, slow-burn tension, possessive fantasies .

The penthouse was silent, eerily so.

Gojo sat on the edge of the glass coffee table, hunched over, his fingers scrolling through the old list of blocked contacts he’d pulled from Y/N’s phone weeks ago.

Hiromi. There it was. Tucked neatly between a spam number and someone labeled “Don’t Answer.”

He stared at it. His pupils were blown wide, the blue almost gone.

His thumb hovered… then tapped.

The phone rang once.

Twice.

“Hello?” Hiromi's voice. Sharp. Guarded.

Gojo smiled.

“Hi. It’s me.”

A pause.

“Who the hell—”

“Satoru. We’ve met before… briefly. Career fair. You gave a charming little speech about ‘work-life balance’ right before cheating on your wife for the third time that month.”

Silence. Gojo continued.

“She loved you, you know. In the beginning. You ruined that. Shattered it. And I just happened to be there, when she needed someone to catch the pieces. Isn’t that poetic?”

Hiromi inhaled slowly.

“What do you want?”

Gojo leaned forward, lips brushing the receiver.

“To meet.”

Another pause.

“Why?”

Gojo laughed. Quiet. Deadly.

“Because men like us don’t settle things through lawyers, Hiromi. We do it face to face. Eye to eye.”

He stood, grabbing his coat. The gun was still in the drawer. He didn’t need it. Not yet.

“I know you think you’re going to win her back. I know you think the kids, the firm, the image of your marriage means something.”

He paused at the elevator, voice dropping to a whisper.

“But let’s be clear. I’ve already fucked your wife in ways your imagination isn’t built to handle. And your kids? They call me Coach.”

“You’re insane,” Hiromi spat.

Gojo tilted his head, smiling like a wolf in a lamb’s coat.

“Probably.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

Click.

The line went dead.

Gojo’s smile didn’t fade.

He didn’t want a fight.

He wanted a reckoning.

-

Gojo pulled into the warehouse lot slowly, headlights slicing through the rain like blades. The sky was an ugly shade of grey, the kind of color that didn’t belong to day or night.

He stepped out of the car, coat flapping in the wind, hair damp and curled at the edges. He left the gun in the glovebox. He wouldn’t need it.

Not for this.

Hiromi was already inside, pacing like a caged wolf. His sleeves were rolled up, jaw clenched, and a cigarette burned down to the filter between his fingers. When he turned and saw Gojo approach, his lip curled with disdain.

The moment their eyes met, the air thickened—hot with history, hate, and something even darker.

They stood in silence. Only the sound of the rain pelting the broken glass roof.

Hiromi was the first to speak.

“You’ve ruined my life.”

Gojo tilted his head, hands in his coat pockets.

“No. You ruined it. I just… rearranged the pieces.”

Hiromi stepped closer, his voice rising, wild with venom.

“You think you’re clever? You think she loves you? You’re a distraction. A pretty little rebellion she’ll grow out of the second she gets her life back.”

Gojo’s smile was thin. Controlled. Deadly.

“She looked pretty in love when she screamed my name with your wedding ring still on her finger.”

Hiromi snapped.

He lunged—shoving Gojo hard against the warehouse pillar. Wood cracked. Dust fell. But Gojo didn’t fight back. He just stood there, breathing through his nose, calm.

“You think I didn’t notice?” Hiromi hissed. “The missing time. The changes in her face. The way the kids started talking about some 'Coach Satoru’ like he was their fucking father?! You manipulated your way in. You stalked her, didn’t you? You planted shit. You wanted me gone—you wanted her broken.”

Gojo blinked slowly. Rain trickled down his temple.

“Did I manipulate her… or did I see her? Did I make her break… or did I just catch her while she was already falling?”

Hiromi punched him.

A loud, meaty thud echoed across the walls.

Gojo’s head snapped to the side, lip split.

He smiled—blood and all.

“There it is,” Gojo whispered. “The real you. Angry. Insecure. Sloppy.”

Hiromi was breathing hard. Chest rising and falling like a man who’d just tasted violence for the first time in years.

Gojo licked the blood from his lip, stepping forward slowly.

“You lost her the moment you lied. You lost her again when you chose your secretary’s ass over your son’s baseball game. You think you can fix that with signatures and custody threats?”

He leaned in, eyes wild.

“I didn’t take her from you. You served her to me. On a silver fucking platter.”

Hiromi laughed—manic and broken.

“You’re not a man. You’re a parasite. A little boy pretending to be a husband, clinging to a woman with kids and baggage like it makes you whole.”

Gojo dropped his smile.

“Say what you want about me…”

His voice dropped an octave. Velvet. Ice.

“But I made her feel loved. Worshipped. Alive. When was the last time you even saw her? Really saw her?”

Hiromi stepped back, trembling—not from fear, but fury.

He wiped his mouth, chest heaving.

“This won’t end well for you.”

Gojo nodded slowly, like he agreed.

“It won’t end at all. That’s the thing about love, Hiromi…”

He looked toward the shadows.

“It doesn’t stop. Even when you beg it to.”

He tilted his head over his shoulder, voice cold.

“You brought a gun, right?”

Hiromi froze.

Gojo chuckled under his breath, like it was a game.

“Come on, Hiromi. You're not that predictable, are you?” “You came all the way out here to a warehouse in the middle of nowhere, no cameras, no witnesses, no backup—and you didn’t bring a fucking gun?”

Hiromi didn’t respond. But his hand twitched—just barely.

Gojo turned around fully. His smile wasn’t kind anymore. It wasn’t cocky. It was… off.

Unsettling.

Too still. Too calm.

“Do you know what she sounds like when she cries for me?” “When she’s underneath me? When she’s telling me she wishes she met me before you?”

He took a step closer. Then another.

“I kissed every bruise you left behind. I touched every part of her body that you ignored for years. And she thanked me for it. Begged me not to stop.”

Hiromi clenched his jaw.

Gojo kept going.

“I gave your kids someone to look up to. I gave her a reason to breathe again. You were just… background noise. A failed chapter.”

He took another step.

“You don’t deserve her.”

Another.

“You wasted her.”

Another.

“And now you’re here… what? Trying to scare me? You think I’m afraid of some half-witted suit who cheats on his wife with interns and hides behind legal teams when his life falls apart?”

His voice dropped, sharp as a razor.

“If you were a real man, you would’ve pulled the trigger already.”

Hiromi’s hand slipped into his coat—subtle, but not invisible.

Gojo saw it.

And smiled wider.

“There it is.”

He spread his arms out, chest open.

“Come on. Do it. Be the villain for once, Hiromi. Make her cry for you instead of me.”

Hiromi stepped forward, voice shaking.

“Shut your mouth.”

“Why?” Gojo whispered. “Does it sting? Knowing I took your wife without even trying? That she let me in every room you were locked out of?”

Gojo stepped even closer—face inches from Hiromi’s.

“Do you know what she said to me… after the first night I fucked her in your bed?”

He leaned in, eyes dark.

“She said thank you.”

Hiromi snapped.

The click of the safety.

The shine of cold metal.

The shaking hand raised, barrel pointed at Gojo’s heart.

But Gojo didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Instead, he whispered—

“Pull the trigger, coward.”

The silence didn’t last.

It shattered—like everything else that ever stood between them.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

Gojo’s body jerked. His breath caught. He stumbled back—eyes wide, pupils blown—and then collapsed with a sickening thud onto the concrete floor.

Hiromi’s mouth dropped open, the smoking barrel trembling in his grip.

Blood pooled fast. Out of Gojo’s stomach. His chest. His mouth.

The youngest heir of the Satoru name lay flat on his back, haloed in red.

His lips twitched. Then— he laughed.

“Aha…” cough “You fucking idiot…” spit “Three shots? That’s it?”

Hiromi stumbled back, stunned. This wasn’t human.

Gojo turned his head slowly, one eye still open despite the thick blood spilling from his nose and mouth.

“You better run, Hiromi,” he slurred, voice soaked in glee. “Because when I get up… she’ll know. You tried to kill me.”

“And she’ll never forgive you.”

Hiromi backed away. Panic rising. He dropped the gun. Turned. Ran.

His tires screeched as he fled the warehouse, unable to process what the hell just happened—his mind spiraling with the sound of that fucking laugh. Gojo’s fingers twitched. Bloody.

One hand crept toward his jacket pocket, inch by inch. He winced as he coughed up more blood, his other hand pressing to the gaping wound in his abdomen. His phone slipped out—screen cracked, but still glowing.

He tapped her name.

[Calling:  Y/N ]

The line rang.

And rang.

And finally—

Click.

“...Hello?”

Gojo coughed violently, blood smearing his lips, his voice ragged.

“Babe…” he gasped, barely audible. “Don’t panic. I’m fine.”

“I’m.. hurt.. I’ve been shot.”

A pause.

Long. Cold.

“I just wanted to hear your voice,” he rasped. “Just… in case.”

Another cough—worse this time.

“I didn’t fight back, you know… I didn’t hurt him. I could’ve. But I didn’t.”

“Because you told me to burn it all down. To stop.”

He smiled through the agony. Blood soaked his teeth.

“But you… You’ll come, right?”

His voice cracked.

“You’ll come find me… right?”

Click.

Y/N’s breath hitched as she dropped the phone.

“Shoko, stay with the boys,” she choked, grabbing her keys with trembling fingers. “Lock the doors. Don’t open it for anyone.”

“Y/N, what’s wrong—?”

“Hiromi shot him.”

The words fell like stone.

She didn’t wait for Shoko’s reply. She was already out the door, rain pouring down like the sky knew something had cracked open.

She drove like a madwoman.

One hand gripping the wheel, the other holding her phone to her ear as she screamed the location to 911, voice breaking.

“He’s been shot—three times, I think—I don’t know—he’s BLEEDING, please—just get there.”

Her car skidded as she pulled up to the warehouse—headlights cutting through the thick dark. The door was wide open.

And there it was.

Blood. So much blood.

“No…” she whispered. “No, no, no…”

She ran.

Slipped.

Caught herself.

Her boots hit the concrete hard, splashing through the crimson trail that led inside.

“Satoru?!”

She rounded the corner.

And there he was.

Crumbled on the ground like a broken doll, hand barely twitching. His pale blue eyes were glassy, wide with pain, and glistening with tears.

“Y/N,” he breathed, voice so soft it nearly broke her. “You came…”

She fell to her knees, not caring about the blood soaking her clothes.

“Of course I fucking came,” she sobbed, cupping his cheeks. “What did you do?!”

He smiled, teeth stained red.

“I just wanted to apologize.. I wanted to make things right,” he said weakly. “Gojo.. w-who did this?”

Her fingers shook as she pressed down on his chest. Her first aid instincts kicked in—but the bleeding wouldn’t stop. It was too much. Too fast.

“Don’t talk,” she said. “I called 911. They’re coming. Just stay with me. Stay with me.”

He blinked slowly.

“I’m sorry for everything… the pictures… the lies…”

“I just… didn’t know how to love the right way.”

She let out a scream of frustration, tears streaming down her face.

“Shut up! Don’t say goodbye! You’re gonna be fine! You hear me?!”

He exhaled shakily, blood bubbling at his lips.

“Maybe in another life,” he whispered, “we’d be normal. No obsession. Just you… and me… falling in love the boring way.”

His eyes fluttered.

She shook him.

“Don’t you dare!” she cried. “Don’t you fucking DARE leave me like this!”

His blood was on her hands. Her arms. Her face.

The sirens wailed in the distance—getting closer.

Gojo’s hand reached for hers.

“I love you…”

And then—those beautiful blue eyes closed…

“SATORU!!!”

Her scream echoed through the warehouse like a dying animal’s cry, raw and guttural. She cradled him, sobbing into his hair, until the red and blue lights swallowed the building whole.

The ambulance doors slammed shut, the sirens howling as red and blue lights stung Y/N’s eyes.

She stood there, soaked in his blood and rain, unmoving—like a statue carved from guilt and grief.

Her breathing was uneven, mind racing. Who did this?

She turned slowly, eyes scanning the dimly lit warehouse. No sign of a struggle. No witnesses. But Gojo—Gojo was bleeding out. Someone meant for him to die.

Her hands clenched into trembling fists.

Who would want him dead?

He was a rich kid. Dangerous. Obsessive. A manipulator. It could be anyone. An ex-lover. An enemy of his father. A jealous rival.

But then it hit her. Like a bullet to the brain.

Hiromi.

Her eyes widened, breath catching in her throat.

“No…”

Of course. Hiromi had motive. Rage. Resources. And every reason to want Gojo out of the picture.

He warned her.

“He’s not normal… he’s obsessed with you… he’d do anything…”

And Hiromi was losing. The boys. The divorce. Her love. Her life.

He snapped.

Y/N jumped into her car, tires screeching as she sped after the ambulance. She couldn’t lose him—not like this. She couldn’t abandon him.

This is my fault, she thought. I caused this. I pushed him to the edge. I made him bleed for me.

Her fingers shook as she reached for Gojo’s phone from her bloody pocket. She unlocked it, still knowing the code by heart.

“This is y/n.. I am almost sure you already know who I am..” she gasped when he picked up.

“Yes.. what’s wrong?” Geto’s voice was sharp, urgent.

“He’s been shot. They’re taking him to St. Augustine. Meet me there. Please.”

She ended the call and tossed the phone to the seat beside her, hand gripping the wheel so tightly her knuckles trembled.

Her mind flashed back to everything Gojo ever did. The obsession. The manipulation. The sacrifices.

The way he bled in her arms.

You’re mine now.

He was always right. He always got what he wanted.

But she had no idea… no idea that he orchestrated this too.

That every drop of blood was part of the plan.

That Gojo Satoru, with three bullets in his chest and a smile on his lips, had never lost control.

Because love, to him, meant giving her the ultimate choice:

Pity him. Stay. Bleed for him.

Because she’d never leave a broken thing behind… not when it whispered:

“I did it all for you.”

-

whew guys.. 2 more chapters left..

taglist ; @loudsilence711 ; @qualitygiantshoepsychic ; @victoria1676 ; @doggggggg-blog2 ; @chewiebee ; @ihateexistence ; @coffeeluvr96 ; @darthasphodel ; @beereadzzz ; @rxeae ; @tsumoorin ; @taeikkkaaax ; @imakms ; @ashikothedog ; @antitopppppppppppp ; @rachelnicolee ; @sarabat85 ; @tharunnihaa ; @randomwritertr ; @zanzie ; @destheevirgo ; @dreamingofyou444 ; @metalfl ; @jjkysnk ; @gris3o

next part - 11

[yanderslutt]

❝𝐈'𝐦 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐛𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐚𝐧, 𝐈'𝐥𝐥 𝐟𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐥 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐞.❞

🔪 yandere! nerdy armin x bully! reader | oneshot (maybe.. series)

cw: stalking, photographic obsession, audio recordings without consent, bullying, toxic dynamics, emotional manipulation, voyeuristic behavior, intrusive thoughts, delusions, implied non-consensual item theft (personal clothing), implied trauma fixation, dark possessive thoughts, twisted romanticization, unhealthy relationship themes

I'm your biggest fan, I'll follow you until you love me

The cafeteria buzzed with the usual midday madness—sneakers squeaking, trays slamming, laughter spilling like soda down the linoleum halls.

You strolled in late.

Skirt short, lip gloss glinting, laughter biting.

Behind you, your loyal entourage—Mina, Hitch, Sasha, and Ymir—trailed like vultures waiting for a kill. Jean and Connie already had the table scouted, arms slung around plastic chairs, eyes locked on you like you were God’s latest sin.

“Target sighted,” Hitch smirked, cocking her head toward the corner.

There he was.

Armin Arlert. Sitting by himself.

Skinny. Pale. Eyes too big for his face, buried in some thick-ass book you could barely pronounce. A tower of untouched lunch beside him. His glasses slid low on his nose, like they always did when he got nervous. God, it was too easy.

“Four-eyes at twelve o’clock,” Mina giggled.

“Someone should cool him off,” you said sweetly, lips curving.

Sasha snorted. “Girl, don’t make me pee—he already looks like he hasn’t showered since freshman year.”

“Exactly,” you purred.

And that was all it took.

A full water bottle in your perfectly manicured hand. Striding across the room like you owned it. Armin didn’t even look up—he never did when you walked past. Too scared. Too smart.

Until you stopped.

Right in front of him.

“Oops.”

You tipped the bottle straight over his head.

The splash echoed louder than it should’ve. Water soaked his golden hair, dripping into his eyes. His book. His lap.

He froze.

You laughed. Loud. Cruel. Unbothered.

His shoulders trembled—but he didn’t say a word. Just blinked at the table as water puddled beneath his tray.

The squad erupted behind you.

“Aw, look, he pissed himself!” “Little bitch can’t even flinch!” “Take a shower next time, freak!”

You reached forward, almost tenderly—flicked his soaked bangs away from his forehead. Your nails scraped the skin just a little.

“Better?” you asked sweetly. “You were starting to stink, Arlert.”

And then you walked away.

But just before you turned—just before—you saw it.

The smile.

Tiny. Barely there. But real.

Right at the corner of his lips.

The laughter followed him down the hallway.

“Freak!” “Look at his pants—did he piss himself for real?” “Should’ve brought him a towel instead!”

They weren’t even clever insults. But they didn’t need to be.

Armin’s wet sneakers squeaked against the floor with every step. Water dripped from his bangs, soaking into the collar of his shirt. He kept his head down. Not because he was ashamed.

But because he was smiling.

The bathroom door creaked shut behind him. Silence.

A beat passed.

Then two.

And then—

He exhaled a shaky breath.

Wringing out his uniform shirt over the sink, he stared down at the water swirling pink-tinted around the drain. His skin stung where her nails had grazed him. So small. So insignificant. But it burned.

He stared at the mark like it meant something.

It does, his mind whispered. She touched you today.

His eyes flicked up to the mirror.

The boy who stared back looked pathetic. Soaking wet. Hair dripping into his eyes. Clothes clinging like second skin.

But the grin?

That was new.

Small. Crooked. Possessive.

It crept across his face like ivy—uncontrolled, all-consuming.

“You’re so beautiful when you hurt me,” he whispered, echoing the words he’d rehearsed a hundred times in his head.

He reached up and touched the spot on his forehead where your fingernail had dragged across. A ghost of you lingered there. He could still feel it. Smell you.

A small, breathy laugh left his lips.

He wasn’t mad.

No.

He was in love.

Sunlight poured down hot and heavy across the blacktop, casting slick shadows of the volleyball net over sweaty skin and shrill voices.

You wiped your forehead with the back of your arm. The ball had just nailed Hitch in the shoulder—sending her off with a dramatic scream and a round of laughter.

“Y/N, you’re savage,” Sasha wheezed, breathless.

You winked. “She deserved it. She was slacking.”

Your group laughed again. The boys were watching now too. Reiner. Jean. Connie. Even Eren was posted up against the fence like he couldn’t tear his eyes off you.

Why would he?

You ruled this school.

Skirt riding up as you jumped for the ball, mouth slick with Cherry Lip Smackers, voice loud, unbothered, untouchable.

You saw the camera before you saw him.

There—just behind the sidelines.

Kneeling. Quiet. That shaggy mop of blond hair still damp from the incident earlier. Big eyes hidden behind cheap plastic glasses.

Armin.

Snapping pictures like a little dog in the yearbook club.

You smirked.

“Look who’s back from his bath,” you called, loud enough to echo across the court.

Eyes turned.

Armin froze.

“Hey camera boy,” you added sweetly. “Make sure you get my good side.”

The squad howled.

Mina barked, “What good side? She’s hot from every angle!”

Sasha added, “Don’t drop the camera again, Four-Eyes!”

And Hitch? Ever the instigator. “He’s probably zoomed in on her ass right now.”

The laughter hit like a wave. It rolled, loud and sharp, rising above the sound of sneakers and whistles and shrill girl voices.

But Armin?

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t flinch.

He smiled again.

Just like earlier.

And this time… He didn’t look away.

Through the lens—he looked right at you.

There was something terrifying about it. Something still. Focused. Not anger. Not embarrassment.

Possession.

Like you’d given him something today. A part of yourself. And now? He was keeping it.

Click.

Another photo.

-

The hall was mostly empty, echoing with the last screeches of sneakers and the slam of locker doors.

You moved slowly, still a little flushed from the game. Your skin was sticky with heat, and your ponytail clung to the back of your neck. You reached your locker, twisting the dial lazily, still riding the high of the attention you soaked up like sunlight.

One click.

Two.

Three.

Click.

The door creaked open.

Your hand paused mid-reach.

Right there—tucked perfectly inside, propped up against your stack of notebooks and scented lip balm—

A bouquet.

Deep red roses.

Fresh. Velvet petals. No note.

And beside them?

A photo.

Your fingers stilled as you reached for it.

It was glossy. High-quality. Ink still fresh.

You.

Mid-spike. Hair whipping behind you. Eyes sharp. Lips parted in focus.

It was a good picture. Too good. Candid. Intimate. Like someone had been watching you, waiting for the perfect moment to capture the way the light hit your cheekbone. The muscles in your legs. The shape of your mouth.

You swallowed hard.

Your first thought should’ve been: Who took this?

But it wasn’t.

Your first thought was: Why does it look like I’m being watch?

You turned it over. The back was blank. But the scent of the roses was overwhelming now. Soft. Sweet. Overripe.

Like someone had picked them for you specifically. Like someone knew what flowers you liked.

You glanced over your shoulder.

The hallway was still empty.

Your stomach twisted.

This wasn’t a joke. No one was laughing. No one was filming for TikTok or waiting around the corner to say gotcha. This was—

Personal.

Something in your chest tightened.

For the first time all day, you didn’t feel like the predator.

You felt like prey.

The only light in the room came from the desk lamp.

Flickering. Faint yellow. Buzzing like it was on its last breath.

Armin didn’t notice.

His eyes were fixed on the photo in his hand.

You.

Mid-laugh. Lip gloss shining. Arm slung around Hitch’s shoulders while your knee-high socks rode dangerously low. His fingers shook slightly as he pressed the photo to the wall, right next to the others. His thumb lingered over your face.

“Pretty,” he whispered.

The wall—no, the room—was covered in you. Hundreds of shots. Some candid. Some blurry. Some framed in Polaroids or printed in high-resolution from the school yearbook computer when no one was looking.

Photos of you walking.

Photos of you stretching.

Photos of you crying after a test once. That one was his favorite.

But it wasn’t just photos.

Your name was written again and again in his notebooks—Y/N. Y/N. Y/N. Swirled in loops. Carved into the desk. One sticky note read “Y/N Arlert” in a dozen fonts.

And then, on the table beside his bed—

A recorder.

He clicked it.

Your voice. Laughing in the distance.

“…he probably zoomed in on her ass right now!”

Another click.

“You're disgusting, Armin.”

Click.

“You stink.”

He played that one three times.

Over and over.

“You stink.”

“You stink.”

“You stink.”

Until the words no longer sounded like insults. They sounded like affection. Like attention. Like love.

He opened his closet door.

Inside, hanging neatly—

Your old gym shirt.

He’d stolen it weeks ago. It still smelled like you. Sweat. Coconut shampoo. Vanilla body spray. He buried his face in it and inhaled, heart pounding.

“Love me,” he whispered.

He sat down at the edge of his bed, grabbing a sharpie. On his thigh, in messy, obsessed loops, he began to write:

“I’m your biggest fan, I’ll follow you until you love me.”

Another line. Below it.

“Promise I’ll be kind… but I won’t stop until that girl is mine.”

He smiled to himself.

Not wide.

Not innocent.

But possessive.

Perfect.

Because today? You finally noticed him.

Tomorrow?

You’d never forget him.

--

I have a really good series plot for this but idk... thoughts? should i continue.. nerdy armin is just sooo yummyyy

[yanderslutt]

𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐟 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐧… 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞…

pt 9 of professor reader x yandere ! college student gojo satoru

read pt 1 ; read pt 2 ; read pt 3 ; read pt 4 ; pt 5 ; pt 6 ; pt 7 ; pt 8

a/n : I recommend reading all parts to get the whole story.

cw's: yandere behavior, manipulation, infidelity, obsessive thoughts, emotional coercion, sexual content, explicit language, obsession, emotional manipulation, possessive behavior, praise kink, delusional fantasies, yandere! gojo, infidelity themes, obsession, married!professor x student dynamic, slow-burn tension, possessive fantasies .

--

The hallway floor was covered now.

Photos everywhere.

Your photos.

They stuck to the linoleum like blood stains—some wet from your trembling grip, others bent from being thrown, a few already torn in half from where your nails had clawed at them.

You were on your knees. Shaking.

Eyes wide. Vision blurred.

"No... no, no, no... I don't want to believe it..."

Your voice was hoarse as you whispered it. But your mind screamed. Screamed.

You looked down again.

Another photo.

Your legs over his shoulders. Your mouth parted in ecstasy. The timestamp on the corner. That was the night you cried in his arms after your court hearing.

You hadn’t known a camera was watching.

Hadn’t known he was filming every time he touched you.

You looked up.

And there he was.

Gojo stood at the end of the hallway, bathed in the flickering red light.

The camera in his hand was still recording.

And that smile—

That terrifying, serene, unblinking smile.

“You’re even more beautiful when you break,” he murmured. “It’s okay now. You see me.”

His voice was soft. Almost loving. But it didn’t match his eyes.

They were wild. Animalistic. Hollowed out by obsession.

Your breath hitched as your chest caved in on itself, the nausea rising in your throat. You reached for another photo—one of you sleeping. Naked. Alone.

“You were safest like that,” he whispered, stepping closer. “You needed someone to protect you. Someone to keep you.”

You screamed.

“You’re sick—Satoru, you’re fucking sick!”

You threw the pictures at him—one after the other, tearing them from your shaking hands as your voice cracked with betrayal. They slapped against his chest, falling like leaves—soft and damning.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t move.

“You loved me,” he said simply, like it was fact. Like it still was. “You still do. This doesn’t change anything—if anything, it proves I was the only one who ever watched you the way you deserved.”

You stumbled to your feet, tears streaming down your cheeks, grabbing the camera out of his hand and smashing it to the floor—

CRACK.

It shattered in pieces—metal and glass sparkling at your feet.

“You watched me like a fucking predator,” you screamed. “You lied to me. You touched me. You filmed me—you… you knew everything.”

Gojo stared at the broken camera.

Then slowly, he crouched—gathering one of the photos from the floor.

He ran his thumb over it.

You. Bent over his desk. Eyes glossy. Lips parted.

He smiled to himself.

“You’re still mine.”

And when he looked up again, the red light bathed his face in shadows.

His voice was velvet and venom. “You want to act like I’m the villain, but if it weren’t for me—you’d still be sleeping beside him.”

You flinched.

He stepped closer. Deliberate.

“You think it was a coincidence?” he said. “The the meet up between you and Minako? I planted her.. I planted it all.. and he fell for it! He.. he is not worthy of you y/n. I planted the damn folder! I gave it to her. BECAUSE YOU DESERVED BETTER. You never would’ve checked unless I made you curious!”

Your mouth dropped open, horror flooding your spine.

“I—”

“You deserved to know.”

He knelt in front of you again. His blue eyes shimmered, almost kind. Almost. His next words dripped with twisted devotion.

“I didn’t cheat on you. I didn’t humiliate you. I gave you joy. I gave you pleasure. I held you while you slept and made you laugh again. And I never asked you for anything—except everything.”

You stared at him. “You let him report me, Satoru. You knew—”

He nodded, casually.

“Of course I knew.”

You choked.

“You let it happen?”

“Yes. Because you were never going to quit that job on your own. You needed a reason. Something big. Something irreversible. And now you have it.”

You shoved his chest. “You ruined my career!”

“I freed you.”

He stood again, towering now, casting a shadow over you. His voice dropped, low and haunting.

“That job took up too much of your time. You stayed because you were bored at home. Your husband shacking it up with whores while you were pregnant. And now? You’re mine. No more excuses. I can take care of everything. You and the boys. A house. A new life.”

You were shaking your head, but your eyes were already glossing over.

“I don’t need—”

“You do.” he cut you off. “You need someone who would kill for you. Burn down buildings for you. Block your ex without asking—because yes, I did that too.”

You stared, your whole body trembling now. “Why?”

He smiled.

“Because I saw you.”

He crouched again, taking your hands gently.

“When no one else did. When Hiromi forgot you were even a woman. I saw the way you flinched when people complimented you, like you didn’t believe it. I saw how exhausted you were, how lonely. And I said to myself…”

He pulled your hands to his lips, kissing them.

“If she were mine, she would never cry again unless I made her scream for it.”

Your lip quivered.

“Satoru… this isn’t love…”

“It’s the only kind of love that’s ever kept you safe.”

He stood again, offering his hand. “Come on. You’ve already seen the worst of me. And you’re still breathing. Isn’t that love too?”

Your breath hitched.

The room was spinning.

Your name rolled from his tongue, soft and reverent.

“Let me take care of you, baby. Just like I always have. Let me handle everything. No more jobs. No more struggling. No more Hiromi. Just you, me, and the life you always deserved.”

You stared at his hand. Your mind screamed to run—but your body… didn’t move.

“Choose me,” he whispered.

And for a terrifying second—

You almost did. The room felt colder now. The silence between you and Gojo was no longer heavy — it was suffocating. Your chest heaved as you gathered the last photo from the ground, your fingers trembling as you looked at it one final time.

You — pinned beneath him. Your head thrown back. Your thighs trembling. A moment that was meant to be private. Sacred. Yours.

Captured. Collected. Archived like a trophy.

You stood up slowly, the photo still in your hands, and walked toward him — stopping just close enough for your words to land like daggers.

“You need to burn them.”

Gojo tilted his head. “What?”

“All of it. The photos. The camera. Whatever sick shrine you’ve built. Burn it.”

His jaw tensed.

“You don’t mean that.”

You stepped forward, eyes sharp, unwavering.

“I do. If you want even the faintest possibility of hearing from me again — of seeing me again — you will end this obsession. You will destroy it. Every picture. Every recording. Every trace of me you’ve hoarded like a fucking psychopath.”

He flinched.

You weren’t done.

“You say you love me? Prove it. Let me go. Let me breathe. Burn the obsession. And maybe—maybe—I’ll consider talking to you again.”

He blinked slowly.

“You don’t mean that,” he said again, but quieter this time. “You’re just overwhelmed. You’re scared.”

“I am scared,” you spat. “I’m terrified that I let this go on for so long. That I trusted you. That I let you near my children.”

His eyes narrowed.

“Don’t,” he said, voice low. “Don’t weaponize them against me.”

You laughed — humorless and broken.

“You already did that. You dressed like their father. You took them to the park. You coached a baseball game. You wormed your way into everything.”

He opened his mouth, but you held up a hand.

“We’re done, Gojo.”

“No, we’re not.”

“Yes,” you whispered, voice breaking now, “we are.”

The wind knocked out of your lungs as you finally said it out loud.

“I loved you. Or maybe I just needed someone. Maybe you filled the space Hiromi left. But I’m not yours. Not now. Not like this.”

He stood still, frozen in place like a statue — but his eyes flickered. His fingers twitched.

“I need time,” you said. “To process. To heal. To breathe without being watched.”

You stepped back.

“Burn it all, Gojo. Or I’ll never speak to you again.”

And then —

You walked away.

And behind you, you could hear it:

Not footsteps.

Not begging.

But silence.

The kind that came before something snapped.

The door shut behind you.

A soft click.

That’s all it was.

But to Gojo, it sounded like a gunshot.

He stood there in the silence of the red room, the photographs strewn across the floor — little frozen pieces of you, of him, of the fantasy he'd stitched together so obsessively it had become realer than reality.

His fingers twitched.

Then his jaw clenched.

Then — snap

“She didn’t mean it,” he whispered.

The pictures — he picked them up, trembling. One after another, he looked at your smile, your thighs, the way you moaned for him. How you kissed him like he was air. Like he was it.

He crushed one photo in his palm.

Then another.

Then another.

“No. No, no, no—she loves me. She needs me.”

He turned sharply, knocking over a chair. It clattered across the floor, smashing into a table leg. He didn’t flinch.

His foot kicked the scattered photos toward the couch. The couch where he first touched you. Where you first whispered his name like a secret.

He screamed.

“YOU DON’T GET TO LEAVE ME!”

His voice bounced off the walls, reverberating through the hollow space like a curse.

Then — he laughed.

A broken, high-pitched laugh that crumbled into a sob as he sank to his knees. His hands ran through his hair, tugging, fisting, tearing at the strands like he could pull the madness out.

“She’s just scared,” he said to no one. “She always comes back. She always needs me. I protected her. I ruined Hiromi for her. I loved her better than anyone ever could—”

His breath hitched.

His eyes fell to the pictures again. One of them fluttered to the floor — a candid one. You, curled up in his arms. Safe. Asleep. Peaceful.

His lips quivered.

“She’s mine…”

He rocked slowly, back and forth, the floor creaking beneath him. The walls seemed to shift, the red light bathing him like blood.

“She doesn’t mean it.”

“She’s just hurt.”

“She’ll come back.”

But deep down, something inside him snapped.

And for the first time — Gojo wasn’t sure if he believed himself.

—

Rain slid down your skin like shame, like tears that didn’t know where to fall.

You were soaked to the bone — hair plastered to your cheeks, hands trembling as you clutched the manila folder against your chest. The elevator ride up to Hiromi’s apartment was silent. Too silent. It made your heartbeat throb in your ears.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Your knuckles whitened around the papers.

You didn’t knock. You just walked in.

Hiromi barely turned his head — still in his pristine white shirt, blazer thrown over the couch, slacks fitted just enough to remind you how he used to look in court. He was by the kitchen window, a cigarette between his lips, the smoke curling lazily like he had all the time in the world.

Your soaked shoes squelched against the floor as you stepped inside.

You placed the divorce papers on the counter between you like a loaded gun.

“Sign them.” Your voice was cracked glass — jagged, fragile, dangerous.

Hiromi exhaled smoke, slow. His eyes flicked down at the folder, then up to you.

And then he smirked.

“No.”

Something in your brain broke.

“GOD DAMMIT, HIROMI!” Your voice shredded the air as you slammed your hand on the counter. “SIGN THEM—OR I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL KILL YOU!”

Your chest heaved. Your hair clung to your face. Water dripped to the floor like a metronome of madness. Your hands were shaking violently — not just from the cold, but from everything you had held in for too long.

But Hiromi… didn’t flinch.

He simply walked closer. Calm. Calculated. Cunning.

“You’re trembling,” he said, almost fondly. “You always do that when you’re falling apart.”

You took a step back — but not in fear. In disgust.

“I’m not scared of you anymore.”

“No,” he mused, tilting his head. “But maybe you should be scared of yourself.”

He picked up the folder lazily, flipping it open as if he were browsing a damn menu. He skimmed through the pages, cigarette dangling between his fingers.

“This?” He tapped the page. “This means you’re on your own. With no job. No support. And a guy watching you like a science experiment.”

He flicked ash into the sink. Then looked at you — really looked.

“You’re unhinged.”

Your breath hitched.

“And I’m not saying that to insult you, Y/N,” he added, mockingly sincere. “You just… you’re spiraling. The board suspended you, you screamed at me in my office, and now this little tantrum?”

He smiled.

“Gojo broke something in you. I see it. Hell, I bet he sees it too.”

You clenched your jaw. Your nails dug into your palm.

“You don’t get to say his name.”

“Why not?” he shrugged. “He’s the one who made you feel alive, right? Isn’t that what you told him between your moans in the backseat of his car—”

You lunged.

Your hand connected with his chest, shoving him hard into the countertop. But Hiromi just laughed, grabbing your wrists as you fought him back with tears pooling in your eyes.

“Get off me—!”

“This is why you’re not stable,” he said calmly, twisting your wrists just enough to control you without hurting you. “This is why I can’t sign those papers.”

“Because if I let you go…”

He leaned down, his voice brushing your ear like venom.

“You’ll self-destruct.”

You ripped away from him.

Tears streaked down your face, mixing with rainwater. Your breath came out in sobs. You grabbed the pen off the counter, slamming it down against the page.

“Sign it.”

He stared at you.

You stared back — and for a moment, something passed between you both.

A war. A funeral. A lifetime.

“You’ll regret this. So, no,” he said softly.

You wiped your face.

“What do you want, Hiromi?” Your voice cracked. Shaky. Desperate—but sharp beneath the surface. He took another drag from his cigarette and exhaled, as if this were all just a stressful work meeting.

And then he said it:

“I want you back.”

You blinked.

“I want us back. You. The boys. Our family.”

You stared at him like he’d grown another head.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I mean it.” His voice was smooth, businesslike, cruel. “You come back home, I can fix all this. Your job? I’ll talk to the dean. Have Gojo transferred somewhere far. No more scandal. No more mess. Just…” He shrugged. “A fresh start.”

Your chest caved in with the weight of it.

Fresh start?

With a man who had cheated on you for years?

With a man who ruined you, emotionally starved you, then blamed you for being hollow?

Your face crumpled, your eyes burning.

“That’s not how this works, Hiromi.”

You let out a dark, mirthless laugh, shaking your head.

“You think you can fix everything with an email and a power move?”

You stepped closer. Cold. Wet. Broken—but not weak.

“You think I’ll forget everything? The nights you didn’t come home? The perfume that wasn’t mine? The way I looked in the mirror and didn’t even recognize myself anymore?”

Hiromi’s lips tightened.

“It was a phase. A mistake—”

“It was years. WHILE I WAS PREGNANT!” Your voice was deadly quiet.

You picked up the pen. Your hand trembled… then steadied.

And without a word, you signed every page.

One by one.

Your name on paper. Black ink like a final wound.

You slid the folder back across the counter, not even looking at him.

“You don’t have to sign it tonight,” you whispered. “But if you don’t…”

You met his eyes now — raw. Unforgiving. Destroyed, but not destroyed enough to stay.

“You’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”

Then you turned around.

Rain still waiting for you like an old friend at the door.

—

The sound of the ice melting in the untouched whiskey glass filled the room. Gojo stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, shirtless, hands in his pockets, bare chest rising and falling as city lights blinked in the glass like a dying heartbeat.

Geto sat on the edge of the leather sofa, laptop open, but untouched. The tension in the room was alive—crawling, suffocating.

Gojo hadn’t said a word in twenty minutes.

He just stood there, watching the skyline like it had something to confess.

Then, he moved.

Slowly.

He crossed the room, barefoot, the hardwood cool beneath him. His steps were too calm. The kind of calm that comes after something in you breaks—silently, permanently.

He opened the drawer.

Click.

The silver glint of the gun caught the faint blue light from the window. He didn’t touch it yet—just looked at it, like it held every answer he’d been begging for.

Geto finally broke the silence.

“What’s the plan, Satoru?”

Gojo tilted his head. Smiled.

But it was hollow. The kind of smile that makes men flinch.

“I’m gonna make her come back.”

Geto’s jaw tightened. “You’re talking crazy.”

“No,” Gojo said softly, eyes locked on the pistol. “I’m talking truth.” He lifted his head, icy blue gaze burning like cold fire. “She doesn’t have a choice. She never did. She won’t.”

He ran his tongue across his teeth. His smile widened.

“Y’know, Suguru… they say rage makes a man sloppy.” He chuckled, dragging a hand through his disheveled white hair. “But love? Love makes him precise.”

He finally picked up the gun.

Not to use it.

Just to feel it.

“I don’t have to hurt her. God, no.” His voice dropped—gentle, reverent. “But if something were to happen... to me…”

He looked over his shoulder at Geto now, eyes gleaming with a feverish calm.

“She’d come running. She always does. It’s in her. That little part of her heart that’s mine. She calls it guilt. I call it devotion.”

Geto stood now, stepping forward cautiously. “Satoru—this isn’t the way. You’re not thinking clearly—”

“I’m thinking perfectly clearly.”

He turned the gun in his hands like a relic. Worshipping it. Planning.

“She loves me, Suguru. Deeply. Not just the kind of love you scream in bed. I mean real love. The kind that looks like… motherhood. Responsibility. If I get hurt—if she thinks she loses me…”

He stepped closer.

“She’ll fall apart.”

Gojo grinned then—full, sharp teeth, eyes blown wide like a man who’d finally found God.

“And when she does…”

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“She’ll come back.”

He clicked the safety off.

Just once.

Like a promise.

-

The keys barely jingled as Y/N stepped inside, her body soaked from the downpour. Her boys rushed to the door, their little feet thudding against the hardwood.

“Mommy!” “You’re home—finally!”

Their voices were soft thunder. She crouched quickly, arms wrapping around both of them, hugging too tightly, too long.

Shoko stood near the kitchen, arms crossed, wearing her concern like a quiet uniform. Her eyes followed every twitch in Y/N’s face.

“You okay?” she asked gently, watching her closely.

Y/N gave a tight, practiced smile.

“Just needed air. That’s all.” She ruffled the boys’ hair, kissed their foreheads, and stood. “I’m okay now.”

But she wasn’t.

Her voice didn’t match the tremor in her fingers as she excused herself to the bedroom.

She didn’t cry.

Didn’t scream.

Just opened her closet, knelt down, and began packing.

One sweater.

One charger.

One bag of makeup that hadn’t been touched in weeks.

The zipper echoed in the silence.

She didn’t know where she was going.

But she had to go.

Shoko stood in the hallway now, leaning against the doorframe, arms still folded.

“You sure you’re okay?” “Yeah,” Y/N lied. “I just need space… just for a night.”

Shoko didn’t believe her. But she didn’t push. She’d seen this before—in patients, in herself. This wasn’t sadness.

This was survival.

Y/N turned back toward her bag—

And her phone rang.

Shrill.

Piercing.

SATORU GOJO.

Her entire body froze.

She didn’t breathe.

Her hands hovered over the duffel like they were no longer hers.

The boys were still chattering softly in the living room. Shoko was watching from the doorway.

“Don’t answer it,” Shoko said.

But the phone kept ringing.

And Y/N’s heart was already answering.

-

re-reading my chapters got me at the edge of my seat.. ya'll i cooked with this fanfic.

2 MORE CHAPTERS LEFTTT!!!! AAAAAHHH

tag list ; (comment 2 b tagged !) ; @loudsilence711 ; @qualitygiantshoepsychic ; @victoria1676 ; @doggggggg-blog2 ; @chewiebee ; @ihateexistence ; @coffeeluvr96 ; @darthasphodel ; @beereadzzz ; @rxeae ; @tsumoorin ; @taeikkkaaax ; @imakms ; @ashikothedog ; @antitopppppppppppp ; @rachelnicolee ; @sarabat85 ; @tharunnihaa ; @randomwritertr ; @zanzie ; @destheevirgo ; @dreamingofyou444 ; @metalfl ; @jjkysnk ; @gris3o

(also sorry for slow updates... I returned back from PTO yesterday.. so..work has been consuming my down time.)

[yanderslutt]

IM YA NASTY DANCER DANCINGGG FOR MONAAAYYYYY

[yanderslutt]

“𝐒𝐚𝐲 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠,” 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝. “𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭.”

pt 8 of professor reader x yandere ! college student gojo satoru

read pt 1 ; read pt 2 ; read pt 3 ; read pt 4 ; pt 5 ; pt 6 ; pt 7

a/n : I recommend reading all parts to get the whole story.

cw's: yandere behavior, manipulation, infidelity, obsessive thoughts, emotional coercion, sexual content, explicit language, obsession, emotional manipulation, possessive behavior, praise kink, delusional fantasies, yandere! gojo, infidelity themes, obsession, married!professor x student dynamic, slow-burn tension, possessive fantasies .

Sunlight spilled through the gauzy curtains, casting soft, golden stripes across the plush white bedding. The lake shimmered just beyond the windows, still and glassy under the rising sun.

Y/N stirred beneath the silk sheets, warmth still lingering on her skin from the night before. The scent of coffee wafted in, rich and dark, followed by the soft sound of footsteps on polished wood.

Gojo appeared in the doorway, shirtless, a mug in each hand and a boyish smirk playing on his lips.

“Morning, gorgeous,” he said, voice hoarse with sleep. “You kept me up all night, and I loved every second of it.”

Y/N chuckled as she pulled the sheet tighter around her chest. “You’re impossible.”

He walked over, setting her mug on the nightstand before leaning down to kiss her shoulder. “Mmm… and apparently irreplaceable.”

She rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered.

He sat at the edge of the bed, brushing her hair back. “So here’s the plan for today, Mrs. Not-Yet-Mine,” he teased. “I made us reservations at that lakeside bistro with the overpriced bread. Then—chartered boat ride. A private little thing… bubbles, berries, and maybe a new swimsuit I snuck in your bag.”

She stared at him, blinking. “You did what?”

“Don't worry,” he winked. “It’s tasteful. Barely.”

Her laughter rang out—until her phone buzzed.

The moment the sound cut through the soft morning quiet, something shifted. Y/N reached for it, expecting a text. Instead, it was a missed call.

Mom.

She called back immediately.

Gojo’s smile faltered. He stood, wandering toward the window, pretending not to listen—but his jaw ticked once. Twice.

Y/N’s voice dropped.

“Wait—he what?”

Pause.

Her fingers gripped the sheet.

“He showed up there?”

Another pause.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know… I—no, we’re out of town. Just me and… just me.”

Gojo’s reflection in the glass didn’t move.

Not until she ended the call.

Y/N turned, her expression tight. “Hiromi went to my parents’. He thought I was there. They lied for me.”

Gojo hummed softly, still facing the lake. “Good parents. Smart.”

“I feel bad lying to them.”

“You didn’t lie. You protected your peace,” he replied, finally glancing back at her. “You deserve this weekend.”

She looked down at her phone again, troubled. “Still…”

Gojo padded toward her. “Y/N,” he said softly. “I’m not asking you to forget your past. Just to let yourself feel the present.”

His fingers brushed her cheek, and his voice dipped low.

“I’m right here. All in. Playing the role. Saying all the right things. Being everything he wasn’t.”

He kissed her forehead gently.

“And I’d burn the whole fucking world to keep you smiling like you did last night.”

The lake sparkled under the sun like it had secrets to keep.

Gojo had rented a sleek, white boat that glided across the water like silk. Champagne sat chilling in a silver bucket beside a small tray of strawberries and honeycomb. Y/N sat at the front, legs bare beneath a flowing wrap, the breeze kissing her skin. Her sunglasses shaded her eyes, but Gojo didn’t need to see them to know they were on him.

The boat cut gently through the still waters, humming beneath them like a heartbeat.

Gojo had one hand on the wheel, sunglasses slipping low on his nose as he turned to glance at her—spread across the cushioned bench in the back, sun-kissed legs crossed, a cherry between her teeth.

His gaze dropped. She knew it.

“Come steer,” he said, voice a lazy drawl. “I’ll show you how to handle something powerful.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Handle, huh?”

Gojo just grinned, stepping back to let her approach. She brushed past him, body hot from the sun, the scent of sunscreen and skin clinging to her like a second perfume. He stayed close—too close—as she took the wheel.

His hand slid over hers on the throttle.

“Loosen your grip,” he murmured in her ear. “Control isn’t about force.”

She swallowed hard.

His other hand settled on her hip, firm and possessive. And then lower. His fingers dipped beneath the tied knot of her wrap, slowly slipping it open, baring the curve of her ass as the fabric fluttered to the deck.

“Gojo…”

“Keep your hands on the wheel,” he ordered softly. “Let me give you a better view.”

He dropped to his knees behind her, worshipping the backs of her thighs with open-mouthed kisses. The boat glided across the lake, engine barely purring, wind teasing her nipples to stiff peaks beneath the thin fabric of her suit.

When his tongue finally found her—slow, confident, maddening—she jolted forward, gasping.

“Don’t stop steering,” he growled into her skin. “You wanted to feel alive? Keep us afloat while I fuck you.”

Her knees buckled slightly, but his grip was unrelenting, anchoring her to him. His tongue flicked against her clit with devastating precision, every movement deliberate, like he’d memorized how to draw pleasure from her like it was second nature.

The sun beat down. The water shimmered.

And he devoured her like he had nowhere else to be.

When she came, she cried out—raw, high-pitched, trembling. Her hands stayed white-knuckled on the wheel.

Gojo rose behind her, hard and aching.

“Look at you,” he breathed, pressing against her. “Still so greedy.”

Y/N turned to him, breathless, flushed.

“Then take it.”

He didn’t hesitate.

Her back hit the padded bench in seconds. He tore the bottom of her suit to the side, pushing into her with a low, guttural moan. She arched beneath him, the boat rocking violently as his hips snapped forward, each thrust deep, dirty, and possessive.

“Say you’re mine,” he growled, biting down on her shoulder as she moaned his name.

“You already know I am… I say it a—all the time during sex..”

“No, I don’t care how many times you say it. I want to hear it.” His voice cracked. “Say it, Y/N.”

She clawed at his shoulders, eyes locking with his.

“I’m yours,” she gasped. “I’m fucking yours, Satoru.”

That unhinged smile bloomed across his face like sunlight breaking through stormclouds.

“Good girl.”

He fucked her harder.

The boat echoed with skin on skin, with her cries, with the slap of water against the hull. But all Gojo saw—all he felt—was her. Coming undone beneath him. Wrapped around him. Trusting him with every breath she took.

And he would never give that up.

—

The blinds were half-drawn, casting long shadows across the desk where a thick manila folder sat open like an open wound.

Kusakabe leaned back in his leather chair, arms crossed, the glow of the desk lamp flickering against the stack of photographs between them.

Hiromi hovered, pacing like a lion in a cage—tie loosened, eyes bloodshot, jaw clenched with restrained fury.

“You’re telling me she’s been seeing him for weeks?” he snapped, flipping through the photographs with trembling fingers.

Y/N and Gojo in the park. Y/N and Gojo at the clay studio. Y/N and Gojo—and the boys.

Kusakabe didn’t blink. “That’s what it looks like. He’s been careful… but not careful enough. And your kids? He’s playing stepdad. Hard.”

Hiromi slammed a fist on the desk, teeth gritted. “She said she was going out of town with friends.”

“She went out of town with him.” Kusakabe pulled out the final photo—a zoomed-in shot of the villa balcony. Gojo shirtless. Y/N wrapped in a robe. Her head on his shoulder. “She’s not hiding it anymore.”

Hiromi grabbed the photo, knuckles going white. His voice came low, sharp. “You said he’s a student?”

“Finishing up his degree. Not just any student. Her student. It’s a conflict of interest at best—grounds for immediate dismissal at worst.”

Hiromi's eyes flashed. “She could lose her job.”

“Exactly.”

He exhaled, slow and shaky, like the idea steadied him. The rage gave way to something cooler now—vindictive. Calculating.

“If this gets brought to the board… to the ethics committee…” He trailed off, a sick smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “That school has a zero-tolerance policy. All it takes is one email.”

Kusakabe narrowed his gaze. “You’re going to weaponize it?”

“I have to. She won’t listen. She’s not thinking clearly. She’s playing house with some psychotic blue-eyed brat, and dragging my sons into it.”

He turned away from the desk, running a hand down his face.

“If she loses the job… it’ll shake her up. She’ll remember what matters. The kids. The mortgage. The custody agreement.”

Kusakabe leaned forward. “You want to use this in court?”

Hiromi looked back over his shoulder.

“I’m going to use everything.”

He snatched the file and tucked it under his arm.

“She wanted to start a war?” he muttered, striding toward the door. “Fine. Let’s see how long she survives in the fire.”

The door slammed behind him.

And in the silence that followed, Kusakabe sighed—just once—before reaching for his phone.

Because if Hiromi thought Gojo Satoru was going to let this slide quietly...

He had no idea who he was up against.

—

The kitchen smelled like rosemary and roasted veggies. Y/N hummed softly to herself as she adjusted the wine glasses on the table, the clink of glass and low jazz playing in the background adding a domestic rhythm to the night. A silk slip clung to her hips, casual but elegant, skin still warm from the bath.

“Hey,” Gojo said from behind her, slipping one arm around her waist, his mouth grazing her neck. “I left something in the car. Be right back.”

She tilted her head with a smile. “Hurry. The wine’s breathing, and so am I.”

He gave her a lazy wink before stepping outside.

The moment the villa door shut behind him, his entire posture changed. The boyish charm dropped like a mask.

He walked calmly to the black car at the edge of the gravel path, tugged open the back door—and as soon as it shut, his phone vibrated.

Geto.

Gojo answered, jaw tense.

“What.”

“She’s in trouble,” Geto said smoothly. “Hiromi’s planning to leak everything to the board. The PI gave him photos. Ethics committee. Her job’s hanging by a thread.”

Gojo didn’t speak.

Not at first.

His hand slowly curled around the steering wheel. His knuckles paled.

Then, a breath—slow. Controlled.

He slid down against the car, back pressed to the warm metal. His head tilted up to the sky as the stars blinked silently above.

“…Let him do it.”

Geto paused. “You sure?”

Gojo’s laugh was low, almost tender. But it didn’t reach his eyes. They were wide—lit with something dangerous, like the flicker of gasoline in moonlight.

“Let him do it,” he whispered again, almost lovingly. “She doesn’t need to work anyway.”

His grip tightened on the phone.

“I’ll make her a stay-at-home wife. Give her a garden. A dog. A necklace with my name etched into the gold.”

He exhaled through his teeth, slow and dreamy. “I’ll buy a house. Build her a studio. Fill it with every shade of clay. Once I graduate—once the trust fund opens—I’ll have enough to burn his fucking firm to the ground.”

He paused. Smiled.

“Let her only option be me.”

There was a moment of silence between the two men.

Then Geto muttered, “You’re getting bolder.”

Gojo laughed again, sliding a hand through his silver hair. “I’m just getting started.”

He hung up.

Tucked the phone away.

And with a practiced inhale, he stood—brushing himself off, smile returning, bright and boyish as ever.

He opened the villa door.

The scent of garlic hit him again. So did her laugh.

And in that moment, the predator vanished. The mask slipped back on.

“Did you miss me?” he called out.

Y/N looked up from the table. “You took forever.”

He leaned down to kiss her cheek, murmuring, “Worth it, though.”

And in the back of his mind, he was already thinking about baby names.

-

The highway unfurled beneath them in long, silver ribbons. Night pressed soft against the windows, and the city drew closer—first a glow on the horizon, then a constellation of windows and brake lights. The Maserati purred, low and steady; the playlist had slipped into something quiet—piano and breath and space.

Y/N curled into the passenger seat, bare legs tucked under her, hair braided loosely over one shoulder. She smelled like lake water and his cologne and the last kiss they’d stolen on the dock.

Gojo drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting palm-up on the console between them. An invitation. She laced her fingers through his without looking.

They didn’t speak for a while.

Then, softly:

“I want you,” he said. No performance, no smirk—just the truth laid bare. “All of it. The loud parts, the quiet parts, the mornings with cereal and spilled milk. I’m here. I’ll wait as long as you need.”

She watched the lights smear across the windshield. Exhaled.

“I want you too,” she whispered. “I do.” A beat. “But I need to finish this right. Finalize the divorce. Make sure the boys are steady. And you—” she glanced at him, a small smile tugging at her mouth— “you need to graduate.”

His thumb swept over her knuckles. “I will.”

“I know,” she said, and it sounded like a promise to both of them. “Then we figure the rest out. Out loud. No hiding.”

They rolled to a red light. In the glossy black of the window, their reflections hovered—two blurred shapes threaded together by ten interlocked fingers.

“Okay,” he murmured. “No hiding.”

The light turned green. He squeezed her hand and guided them back into the flow of night.

She leaned her head against the glass, watching the neighborhoods morph into familiar streets. “Thank you,” she added after a while. “For the lake. For… letting me forget.”

He smiled, small and private. “I didn’t let you. You chose to.”

Silence again, but warmer now. The kind that fills a car after a shared decision.

They turned onto her block.

Porch lights pooled across trimmed lawns. A sprinkler hissed somewhere down the street. Y/N’s house waited, dark and quiet and suddenly less frightening than it had been the week before.

Gojo eased to the curb and shifted into park. Neither of them moved to open a door.

“Tomorrow,” she said, almost to herself, “I’ll call Shoko. Push the filings.”

“Tomorrow,” he echoed, eyes on her profile like he was memorizing it.

She brought his hand to her lips and kissed the back of it—quick, certain—and then let go. “Good night, Satoru.”

“Good night.”

She slipped out and crossed the path to her door, pausing once to look back. He lifted two fingers in a lazy salute, boyish again. She disappeared inside.

Gojo stayed a moment longer, engine idling, gaze fixed on the quiet silhouette of her living room window. Then he killed the headlights and leaned back, a slow smile ghosting across his lips.

He already knew how the next day would unravel. He’d made sure of it.

The neighborhood settled around him, unaware. And when he finally pulled away from the curb, the night swallowed the purr of the car, leaving only the echo of a promise and the soft thud of a plan clicking into place.

The late evening hung low in the sky, Y/N stood with her keys in hand. The boys were already buckled in the backseat, chattering about baseball and what snacks they wanted for dinner.

Her mother stood by the screen door, arms folded loosely, eyes clouded with concern. Her father stepped down the porch steps, voice quiet but insistent.

“Are you sure you’re okay driving back with them?”

Y/N turned, giving a tired smile. “Yeah, I’m fine. We needed this little reset. It helped.”

Her mother pursed her lips. “Hiromi was here… the other night. He looked—” she struggled to find the right word, “unwell. Pacing, asking about you. When we told him you were out of town, he didn’t believe us. He thought you were ignoring him.”

Y/N raised a brow. “I texted him about the boys’ game.”

Her father shook his head. “He said you blocked him.”

She blinked. “What?”

Her mother nodded slowly. “He tried calling in front of us. Straight to voicemail.”

“I didn’t block him…” Y/N muttered, brows furrowing. “Why would I—?”

Her voice trailed off as she turned toward the car. Her heart thudded once, hard, against her ribs.

Slipping into the driver’s seat, she unlocked her phone with a swipe. Notifications lit up the screen—texts from her mother, a few from her group chat, none from Hiromi. Her stomach twisted.

She tapped into her settings. Contacts. Blocked numbers.

There it was. Hiromi [Work] — blocked. Hiromi [Cell] — blocked.

Her breath hitched.

No. No, she hadn’t done that. She would remember. She wouldn’t have—

“Mommy?” one of the boys called from the backseat, kicking his feet. “You good?”

She quickly turned the screen away and locked the phone. “Yeah, baby. Just checking something.”

But her hands were cold on the steering wheel.

And in the back of her mind, a whisper stirred.

When had she last left her phone out?

When had she last seen Gojo… look at it?

She swallowed. Her jaw tightened.

Her parents were still watching her, worry stitched into every line on their faces. She forced a smile, waved goodbye, and pulled out of the driveway.

But her mind stayed frozen on that list.

Blocked.

And not by her.

Not by mistake.

Not anymore.

—

The morning sunlight crept across the parking lot as Y/N adjusted her blazer, sipping lukewarm coffee from a travel mug and tapping nervously at her steering wheel. She had barely slept.

The kids were dropped off—backpacks on, grinning, waving goodbye like they didn’t know their mother was unraveling thread by thread.

She needed today.

She needed normalcy.

Her heels clicked sharply against the polished floors as she stepped into the faculty building, greeting passing students with a tight-lipped smile. Her lesson plan for the day was tucked neatly under her arm.

But before she could reach her office, she heard her name.

“Professor Y/L/N.”

Her footsteps slowed.

Dean Kiyotaka Ijichi stood near the glass conference hallway, his glasses slightly fogged from the walk across campus. He looked nervous—more than usual. His clipboard clutched in one hand, tie slightly askew.

“We need to speak. In my office. Please.”

Y/N blinked, brows pulling together. “Is something wrong?”

“Just—come with me,” he said softly, eyes darting to the nearby students.

A pit bloomed in her stomach.

She followed.

Inside his office, the blinds were drawn. A printed packet sat on his desk. He gestured for her to sit, clearing his throat as he closed the door behind them.

“I’m… I’m afraid I have to notify you that, effective immediately, you are placed on administrative suspension—pending an investigation by the Ethics Committee.”

The words hit like bricks.

“What?” she breathed, color draining from her face.

He didn’t look her in the eye. “We received an anonymous tip sent to the university’s Ethics and Conflict of Interest Board late last night. The email contained screenshots—time-stamped photos, and internal building logs suggesting you’ve been engaging in… a romantic and potentially sexual relationship with a student.”

Her throat closed.

“I—” she shook her head violently, already trembling. “You can’t be serious. This is—this is insane. I haven’t—”

He raised a hand gently, not unkindly. “Please. Let me finish.”

Y/N stared at him, hands white-knuckling her lap.

“The student in question is Satoru Gojo.”

He paused, letting the name settle.

“We’re not saying you’re guilty,” Ijichi continued. “But because Gojo is actively enrolled and under your academic supervision, the board has decided an internal investigation is necessary. During that time, your faculty access will be suspended—email, class portal, and teaching responsibilities. We’ll provide a temp replacement until this is resolved.”

“No,” she whispered. “Please, no—I’m going through a divorce. I need this job. This isn’t fair. You know me.”

Ijichi’s face twisted with regret. “I’m fighting for you. I told the board I’ve never had a single complaint about your professionalism in ten years. But they… they won’t move forward without an investigation.”

Y/N’s heart was thundering. “I never planned any of this. I never crossed a line until—until—”

She couldn’t even finish.

Her hands covered her mouth as the tears came hot and fast.

Ijichi leaned forward, voice quiet. “I’m sorry. I really am. I’ll keep you updated. But for now… please pack up anything personal from your office before the end of the day.”

Y/N stood slowly, her body moving on instinct. The hallway outside was buzzing with life, but she felt like she was drowning.

Someone had sent that email.

Someone had wanted this to happen.

And she already knew who.

The heels of her shoes clapped down like gunfire against the marble floor of the firm’s main lobby. Y/N’s breath was shallow, each inhale sharp with fury. She ignored the front desk clerk. Blew past security. Shoved past interns and associates alike.

“Ma’am—excuse me!” one of the receptionists called out.

But she didn’t stop.

“Where is he?” she demanded, rounding the corner toward Minako’s desk.

Minako glanced up slowly, her lipstick too red, her blouse too tight. “He’s in a meeting.”

Y/N’s eyes were wild. “Then I’ll interrupt.”

She didn’t wait. She marched down the corridor, the frosted glass walls of the conference room glowing faintly with silhouettes. She threw open the door with a crash.

The room fell silent.

“Out,” she snapped.

The board members froze. A few glanced at Hiromi, who sat stiffly at the head of the long table. His eyes widened as Y/N stepped forward.

“I said OUT.”

Something in her voice made them listen. Chairs screeched, papers shuffled, and the door clicked shut behind them, leaving only the two of them—wife and husband, betrayal thick in the air.

Y/N slammed the door. Her voice broke as she turned to him, tears already burning. “You can’t let me be happy, can you?!”

Outside the glass walls, passing partners slowed their steps, peeking in with quiet interest at the private drama unfolding behind what was supposed to be a soundproof room.

Hiromi stood slowly, straightening his tie. “Y/N. This is not very professional.”

Her laugh was bitter, loud. “Professional? Professional?! You’re fucking your secretary and reporting me? The only reason no one’s called HR is because this goddamn building has your name on it!”

His jaw clenched. “I did what I had to. For the kids. He’s dangerous, Y/N. You don’t know him.”

“I know enough,” she hissed.

Hiromi stepped forward, voice low. “He’s not normal. That boy isn’t just obsessed—he’s unhinged. He’ll do anything for you. And that should scare you.”

“It doesn’t,” she snapped. “Because at least he does something. He shows up. He listens. He loves them. More than you ever have.”

His face darkened.

“I’m going to bleed you dry, Hiromi,” she seethed. “You will regret the day you married me. I’m going to ruin you.”

She turned to leave, fire in her step.

But his voice stopped her.

“Red Room.”

The words dropped like a body.

She froze.

Her hand on the doorknob trembled. She didn’t look back.

“What did you say?” she whispered.

Hiromi’s voice was quiet. Calm. Like a man who still had one card left to play.

“You should ask your boyfriend about it.”

She turned slowly, her eyes wide now. Vulnerable.

Hiromi offered a tight, cold smile.

“You really think you know him? Ask him what’s behind that locked door. Then tell me again who you trust.”

Instead, her eyes drifted to the ventilation grate near the floor. Slightly askew. Like someone had pulled it open—then shoved it closed too fast.

And underneath the silence… something hummed.

She grabbed a nearby stool, dragging it beneath the vent. The moment her fingers touched the screws, she knew—someone had opened this recently.

One twist. Then two.

The vent cover came loose.

And then—

Something tumbled out.

A box. A black, metal box.

Y/N caught it mid-fall with a gasp, almost dropping it from the weight. It was cold. Locked. But not well. With a little pressure, the latch snapped open—

Photos spilled out. Dozens. Hundreds.

She froze.

Images of her.

In the studio.

In her home.

In bed. In the shower.

In her car.

Images of her and Gojo.

Their bodies tangled.

Her face in the throes of pleasure.

Gojo kissing her neck, his eyes open—staring at the camera.

Her sleeping, curled in his hoodie.

One photo was clipped with a red paper tag labeled:

“My first and only crush - Satoru Gojo.”

Another had writing on the back in thick ink:

"I told you I’d keep every version of you. Even the ones you tried to hide."

Her breath left her body.

The world spun.

Her hand trembled as she flipped more photos. There were shots from above—angles that didn’t make sense. Unless…

She looked up.

The vent.

He’d hidden a camera. And a box.

For how long?

Her stomach churned. She backed away, but stepped on a photo—crushing the image of her own crying face, caught in a moment she didn’t even remember.

And then—behind her—

The floor creaked.

“I was going to show you when you were ready.”

Gojo’s voice was quiet. Soft.

Too soft.

“But I guess curiosity wins again, huh?”

She turned slowly.

He stood at the end of the hall.

No grin. No mask. Just him—in all his unhinged glory.

He held nothing in his hands.

Except his phone.

Recording.

“Say something,” he whispered. “I want to remember this moment.”

-

BOMBB DROPPP. Only 2-3 more chapters left, then i need to repost on wattpad. if u like this.. you should def read house of balloons - click House of Balloons - Yandere ! Gojo x Reader x Choso !

tag list ; (comment 2 b tagged !) ; @loudsilence711 ; @qualitygiantshoepsychic ; @victoria1676 ; @doggggggg-blog2 ; @chewiebee ; @ihateexistence ; @coffeeluvr96 ; @darthasphodel ; @beereadzzz ; @rxeae ; @tsumoorin ; @taeikkkaaax ; @imakms ; @ashikothedog ; @antitopppppppppppp ; @rachelnicolee ; @sarabat85 ; @tharunnihaa ; @randomwritertr ; @zanzie ; @destheevirgo ; @dreamingofyou444 ; @metalfl

[yanderslutt]

𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬

mikasa x fem!reader | college au

cws: smut (18+), fingering, dom!mikasa, possessive behavior, obsession themes, emotional vulnerability, soft dominance, reader crying from pleasure, praise kink, intense makeout, suggestive biting, post-party tension, sapphic tension, college AU, yandere-lite energy.

I don't wanna be your friend, I wanna be your bitch And I wanna touch you, but not like this ..

The house was loud—spilled drinks, neon lights, fake cobwebs clinging to every corner like secrets. Your heels clicked across the hardwood floor sticky with jungle juice, and your costume barely covered your thighs. You looked good. You knew it. Everyone did.

Especially her.

Mikasa stood across the room near the kitchen counter, dressed in something simple—black boots, black skirt, red cape tied at the throat like blood at her neck. She didn’t need anything elaborate. She just stood there, sipping her drink, eyes never leaving you. Even as Jean leaned closer. Even as Yelena pulled you toward the center of the room.

“Truth or dare!” Sasha yelled, voice slurring over the music, bottle spinning in the middle of the circle.

You were sandwiched between Connie and Yelena on the couch, legs draped over one, a drink balanced in your hand. The room buzzed with alcohol and heat.

“Y/N,” Historia grinned from across the circle, cheeks flushed, “Truth or dare?”

You smirked. “Dare.”

“Dangerous,” Jean muttered.

Historia leaned forward, blonde hair swinging. “I dare you to kiss someone in this room.”

“Boooooring,” Sasha groaned. “Make it good, at least.”

“Fine,” Historia smirked. “Kiss Mikasa.”

That sobered the group.

All eyes flicked toward her—where she stood, silent and unreadable, bottle halfway to her lips.

Connie whooped. Armin choked on his drink. Reiner raised his eyebrows. Yelena glanced at you with something unreadable.

“I mean…” you laughed, playful, waving it off. “If she’s okay with it.”

You didn’t expect her to move.

But she did.

Mikasa walked over slow, cape swaying like a shadow behind her. She didn’t say anything. Just stared. And when she reached you, she didn’t crouch—she pulled you up.

Hands firm on your waist. Cold from her drink. Music thudding like a second heartbeat in your throat.

She kissed you.

Not quick. Not playful. It was a kiss like she had been dying for it—like she'd already done it a thousand times in her head. Her mouth was soft and unrelenting, and when your lips parted just enough to breathe, she didn’t stop.

You heard Sasha gasp. Connie muttered “holy shit.” Jean looked like someone had punched him.

When Mikasa pulled back, your lipstick was smeared. Her hands were still on your waist.

She didn’t smile.

She leaned in and whispered, low:

“The look in your eyes..”

Then she walked away, cape fluttering behind her like the closing of a curtain.

You stood frozen.

Everyone laughed it off. You laughed too.

But Mikasa didn’t laugh.

She just kept watching you from the darkened hallway, eyes black and starved.

Like the party was over.

Like she had already won.

PRESENT DAY

The gym roared.

Sneakers squeaked. A whistle blew. The crowd cheered like thunder.

You were winded, flushed, still high on the final cheer routine as you caught your breath courtside. Your ponytail clung to the back of your neck, glitter sticking to your thighs, and your lungs burned—but the adrenaline felt good. Addicting. The final pose hit just as Mikasa’s spike landed hard over the net—point, game.

Victory.

Your squad erupted into a cheer of your own. Across the court, the volleyball team huddled together in a tight circle of sweat and triumph. Mikasa stood at the center, untouched by the chaos. Her chest rose and fell beneath her tank, jaw clenched, expression unreadable as always. But her eyes—

They flicked to you.

Even in victory, she was watching.

Later.

The women’s locker room echoed with the low hum of showers and distant laughter. Most of the cheer squad had already changed and left. You lingered, dragging your fingers through your hair, relishing the quiet.

Then the water stopped.

You looked up.

Mikasa stood across the tiled room, fresh from the shower. Her black hair clung to her skin in wet strands, long drops trailing down her collarbone, her back, her thighs. A towel hung loose around her waist. Her sports bra was soaked and clung like second skin.

You swallowed.

She didn’t move. She just looked at you like she had something to say… but was waiting for you to speak first.

You hesitated, then took a step closer.

“Hey,” you said gently. “You okay?”

She blinked. “Yes.”

You nodded, but your eyes lingered. Maybe a little too long.

There was a question burning a hole through your throat. You weren’t sure why you asked it. Maybe it had been eating at you for weeks. Maybe it just slipped.

“Are you and Eren… dating?”

Mikasa’s expression didn’t change.

She just tilted her head slightly.

“No,” she said. “Never. He’s like a brother.”

Her voice was quiet. But something in her tone sounded final. Like the word brother carried weight, like she needed you to hear it.

You bit your lip. “Oh. I always wondered…”

Silence.

You smiled a little, nerves creeping in. You reached into your duffel and pulled out a folded slip of paper—cheap and torn from a notebook, your number scrawled in glitter pen across the center.

You held it out.

“My birthday’s this weekend,” you said. “I’m throwing something lowkey. You should come. If you want.”

Her eyes dropped to the paper. Then back to you.

She took it.

Fingers brushing yours.

“Thank you,” she said. Her voice was calm. But something lingered in the air between you. Like electricity beneath water.

You turned to leave, heart pounding for no good reason.

She watched you go.

Still wrapped in her towel. Still dripping.

Still holding your number in her hand like it meant something far, far deeper.

-----------------------

The backyard was packed.

Someone had hung fairy lights across the fence, but most had already shorted out from people jumping into the pool. A speaker blasted throwback music. Bottles clinked. A group of frat boys were half-naked and soaking wet, doing cannonballs while Jean and Connie screamed at them to “Save the damn beer!”

You were laughing. Buzzed off a second shot and feeling warm all over.

You wore something short, soft, and clingy. It was your birthday. You deserved to look good.

Even if Yelena was acting like a total bitch.

“Wow,” she muttered beside you, arms crossed tight. “Making a lot of new friends tonight, aren’t we?”

You blinked. “What?”

Yelena’s eyes were locked across the pool, where Pieck was leaning in close to whisper something in your ear. It had been harmless—Pieck flirted with everyone. It was her thing. But Yelena’s jaw was clenched.

“She was just being friendly,” you said, trying to laugh it off.

“You’re not friendly with me like that.”

You rolled your eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Yelena leaned closer, voice sharp. “It means you like the attention, huh? From anyone but me.”

That stung.

“It’s my birthday,” you snapped. “Maybe don’t make it about your insecurities for once?”

That did it.

She turned and walked away, knocking a beer off the patio table as she stormed through the crowd.

You exhaled hard.

Across the yard, Sasha and Niccolo were laughing on a pool float while Reiner tried to grill burgers and ended up setting half of them on fire. Armin was sitting by the fire pit with Hitch, too nervous to drink. Floch and Connie were arguing over who could do the better keg stand.

And Mikasa?

She had just arrived.

She wasn’t dressed for a party. She wore black jeans and a fitted top, hair tied back, lips painted dark. She looked like she belonged in a noir film—not standing next to drunk college kids playing beer pong. But she fit in a strange, magnetic way.

And she was watching you.

You walked over to her, cheeks still flushed from the fight with Yelena.

“You made it,” you said, surprised by how happy you sounded.

“You invited me.”

You smiled. “Still. I didn’t think you’d come.”

“I came for you.”

She said it so simply. No hesitation. No shame.

You faltered. “Want a drink?”

She nodded. “Sure.”

You handed her your cup, and she drank from it without asking.

Then her eyes flicked toward the pool. “Yelena’s upset.”

You stiffened.

“She’s jealous.”

You didn’t respond.

She stepped closer. “Why are you still with her?”

You blinked. “That’s not your business.”

“It is if you’re mine.”

Your heart jumped.

You laughed awkwardly. “I thought we were friends.”

She looked down at you, slow and deliberate.

“That’s not what I want.”

The music swelled. A splash of water soaked your legs. Jean shouted something about chicken fights. You felt the ground shift beneath you.. Mikasa’s eyes.. on you.

The party moved inside. But she waited for you in the dark.

The laughter inside was too much.

You slipped through the sliding glass door, your bare feet skimming cool concrete as you stepped outside into the night. The air was damp and still buzzed with music from inside, but out here—away from the crush of bodies, the drunk shouting, the stares—it felt easier to breathe.

The hot tub was still on. Steam rose in soft curls under the moonlight, bubbling like a secret being kept warm.

That’s when you saw her.

Mikasa.

She was already in the water—arms draped along the edge, head tilted back, eyes closed. The steam softened her features, casting her in silver-blue shadow. Her hair was tied up now, damp strands clinging to her neck. The water shimmered around her collarbones.

You hesitated. You were still in your birthday dress. Something short. Backless. Skin on display like a dare. You shouldn’t get in.

But she opened her eyes.

And looked straight at you.

“You coming in?”

Your mouth was dry. “Should I?”

Her lips barely twitched. “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want you to.”

So you peeled the dress over your head and stepped in slowly—the warmth licking up your thighs, bubbles kissing your skin. You sat across from her, nervous in a way you weren’t used to.

Mikasa wasn’t saying anything. She didn’t need to. Her eyes were on you—soft, unreadable, but so present. Like she saw everything.

“You okay?” she asked, voice low, water sloshing gently around her.

This time, you didn’t fake it.

“No,” you whispered.

She didn’t press. Just waited.

“Yelena’s exhausting. Everything is always about her. What she wants. What I did wrong. Who I talk to. How I laugh. She keeps saying she loves me but I—I don’t even feel like a person around her anymore.”

Your voice broke somewhere near the end. You hated that. But Mikasa didn’t look away. She moved closer, arms still submerged.

“You deserve to be seen,” she said quietly. “Not tolerated. Not owned. Not dimmed.”

You blinked at her, eyes stinging.

“You think she owns me?”

“I think you’ve forgotten how powerful you are.”

She was right next to you now. Her leg brushed yours under the water. You looked up.

And she was already watching.

Your faces were so close—lips just inches apart. She smelled like citrus and salt. Her breath was steady. Yours wasn’t.

“Mikasa…” you whispered.

“I see you, Y/N.”

Her hand gently grazed your arm. The heat of the tub was nothing compared to the warmth crawling up your spine. Your lips hovered over hers—breath trembling between you.

And then—

“YO! BIRTHDAY GIRL!”

You jumped, water splashing.

Connie stood at the edge of the hot tub, holding a sparkler and a slice of cake with his shirt inside out and backwards. “We’re about to sing! You’re late to your own damn party!”

You swallowed, pulse racing.

“Coming,” you managed.

Mikasa’s hand slipped away.

But her eyes didn’t.

You stepped into the kitchen soaking wet from the hot tub, still flushed from the almost-kiss and very much unprepared for what came next.

“SURPRISE—again, bitch!”

Sasha screamed it before anyone else could, holding a half-burnt cupcake above her head like it was Simba from The Lion King.

Everyone was there.

Jean wearing a party hat that said “Kiss Me, I’m Horny.” Hitch had face glitter under her eyes and a slice of cake already on her cheek. Reiner stood at the stove in your apron flipping mystery pancakes for no reason. Connie was shirtless again, sunglasses on, and somehow managed to hold an acoustic guitar upside down.

“We’re singing,” he announced proudly. “I practiced for this moment.”

You blinked. “You’re drunk.”

“No, I’m Connie.”

The lights dimmed—thanks to Armin and a clumsy trip over the Wi-Fi router—and everyone burst into a chaotic, off-key rendition of Happy Birthday that had four different tempos, one key change, and no survivors.

“HAAAAPPY BIRRRRTHDAAAY Y/N—”

“BITCHHHH IT’S YOUR BIRRRTTHDAYYY—” Sasha belted, eyes closed like she was on The Voice.

You doubled over laughing.

Someone handed you a party crown—okay, it was just a Burger King crown with your name written in pink sharpie—but you wore it anyway.

Pieck pulled you in for a slow dramatic spin like you were prom royalty. You almost tripped over Jean’s shoes, which had somehow migrated to the ceiling fan.

Mina popped a confetti cannon too close to the microwave and screamed like she’d been shot.

“Make a wish!” Armin said brightly, holding out a homemade cake that leaned slightly to the left like it survived a war.

You leaned forward. The room fell quiet for a second.

Your eyes flicked to Mikasa—still in the hallway, still watching, still soaked from the hot tub with her arms crossed and something unreadable in her expression.

You smiled.

And blew out the candles.

POP. Connie set off another confetti cannon and screamed, “YOU’RE LEGALLY ALLOWED TO BE A MESS NOW!”

Reiner shoved a forkful of cake into your mouth like a toddler being force-fed. Sasha danced on the table. Yelena had disappeared somewhere (thank god). Hitch was already setting up a round of Never Have I Ever. Jean pulled you into a group selfie and screamed “WE’RE GOING VIRAL” while Armin blinked in panic, mid-blink in every photo.

And in the middle of all that—Mikasa stepped closer.

She didn’t say anything.

She just placed a small gift into your hand.

Wrapped in black paper. No name tag.

“Open it later,” she said quietly.

You nodded.

And her fingers grazed yours just a moment longer than they should have.

—

2:43 AM.

The house had quieted into a soft buzz of leftover bass and distant snoring.

You were moving through the living room barefoot, dragging blankets and pillows from your room, adjusting them on the floor next to the couch, where Jean was already snoring like he paid rent. Sasha was curled in a pile of snacks. Reiner had passed out with a pancake on his chest. Hitch was in the guest room spooning a body pillow.

You tiptoed around red Solo cups and the remnants of glittery streamers, picking up as you went. Your dress had been swapped for an oversized hoodie—your crown long gone.

You felt tired. But your head was still racing.

And that’s when you heard the voice behind you.

“Funny how you always clean up everyone else’s mess,” Yelena muttered from the hallway.

You paused mid-step.

“It’s not a big deal,” you said softly.

“No,” she snapped, stepping closer. “It’s always a big deal. You’re always the one making people feel safe. Comfortable. Cared for. But you never let anyone take care of you.”

You set the pillow down harder than necessary.

“What do you want from me?”

“Honesty,” Yelena hissed. “About what the hell is going on between you and Mikasa.”

That stopped you cold.

“Nothing’s going on,” you said quickly. Too quickly.

“She’s everywhere. Always hovering. Always looking at you like you’re hers.”

“Yelena—”

“You think I don’t see it?”

You stared at her, something brittle rising in your chest.

“You don’t see me at all, Yelena,” you said, voice sharp. “Not unless I’m apologizing or making myself small enough to fit whatever version of me you’re okay with.”

Silence stretched tight.

Then—

“YO—DID YOU GUYS MAKE OUT IN THE HOT TUB OR WHAT?”

Both your heads whipped around.

Connie.

Drunk, dazed, blanket wrapped around him like a toga, standing in the doorway with the worst timing known to man.

“Connie, what the hell—”

“She was all up in your space,” he said, stumbling forward and giggling. “Steam, tension, lips barely touching. I felt it. I saw it.”

You froze.

Yelena’s eyes turned dark.

“You what?” she said flatly.

“I didn’t mean it like—” you started.

“So it’s true,” she said coldly. “You kissed her.”

“We didn’t!”

“Yet.”

The word dropped from Yelena’s mouth like venom.

The room felt suddenly smaller. Hotter.

“Get some rest,” you muttered. “Please.”

“You want me to sleep while my girlfriend’s out playing emotional roulette with someone who’s been obsessed with her since freshman year?”

“I’m not your girlfriend,” you snapped.

That shut her up.

Connie blinked. “Oop.”

You stormed off, heart in your throat, fists clenched.

Behind you, Yelena stood in the hallway, jaw tight, breath sharp. Connie tried to slink back to the blanket pile but tripped over a lamp and faceplanted into the beanbag chair.

Nobody moved.

Somewhere in the house, Mikasa still hadn’t gone to sleep.

And the gift she gave you—wrapped in black paper—still sat unopened on your dresser upstairs.

Everyone else fell asleep. But she waited for you.

The porch was quiet now.

Just the soft hum of cicadas and the faint thrum of leftover music bleeding through the windows. You sat on the old wooden step, hoodie pulled over your knees, blinking against the sting in your eyes. You weren’t crying. Not really. Just breathing heavy.

Yelena had left in a rage—door slammed, tires screeched, no goodbye.

You didn’t try to stop her.

You sat in the cool air for a while, letting the night wrap around you. Letting the silence press down where her voice had been.

Eventually, you went inside.

Stepped past the sleeping bodies strewn across your living room like debris. Carefully climbed the stairs. Turned the knob to your room with tired fingers and crept into the dim.

The black-wrapped box was still there—on your dresser.

You picked it up slowly.

Tore the paper gently.

Inside was a small, handcrafted notebook. Leather-bound. Embossed with your initials. And tucked inside the first page… a sketch. Of you.

Laughing.

It wasn’t perfect. But it was raw. Real. The curve of your mouth. Your eyes squinting just the way they do when you find something truly funny.

Underneath it, scrawled in Mikasa’s small, exact handwriting:

"This is how I see you. Not how you pretend to be." Happy Birthday.

You blinked fast. Your throat caught.

“Goddamn it,” you whispered.

You sat on the edge of your bed, holding it close to your chest.

And then—a knock.

Soft. Careful.

You didn’t move for a second.

Then—

“Come in.”

The door creaked open.

Mikasa stepped inside slowly, hair loose, wearing only a black shirt and fitted sweatpants. Her eyes found yours immediately. She didn’t ask permission to come closer.

She closed the door behind her.

Silence stretched between you—thick, tender, terrifying.

“Everyone’s asleep,” she said softly.

You nodded. “I know.”

“I heard yelling.”

You nodded again, slower.

“She left.”

“I figured.”

You stood, still clutching the notebook.

“Thank you,” you said, voice breaking just slightly. “For the gift. It’s… I don’t think anyone’s ever given me something that personal before.”

You stepped closer.

And hugged her.

Her arms came around you slowly, steady, and strong. Her breath was soft against your hair. And for a moment, it felt like the entire world paused—just for this.

When you pulled away, her hands stayed on your arms. You didn’t move.

“What happened?” she asked gently. “Between you and Yelena?”

You hesitated.

Then said the truth.

“She didn’t love me. She wanted to control me. And I was so used to being… needed, that I stopped asking if I was actually happy.”

You looked up at her.

“And then tonight, I finally said it out loud. That I wasn’t hers.”

Mikasa’s jaw flexed. Her eyes darkened—not with anger. With something deeper.

She stepped closer.

“You’re not hers,” she said, low and certain.

Your breath hitched.

“Mikasa—”

“You’ve never been hers. Not really.”

Your heart pounded.

The air felt too thick. Too hot.

She reached up, fingers brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

“You’ve just been waiting for someone to see you.”

“And you think that’s you?”

“I don’t think it,” she said. “I know it.”

Your lips were trembling. So were hers.

And in the stillness of your bedroom, lit only by the faint moonlight leaking through your curtains, everything tilted.

Your lips parted—just slightly.

A breath. A heartbeat. A moment too heavy to survive.

Mikasa’s hand was still cupping your jaw, thumb ghosting the edge of your mouth. Her other hand slipped behind your waist, pulling you closer until your chest brushed hers—until you could feel the thrum of her pulse like a war drum in her skin.

And then—

She kissed you.

Not soft.

Not sweet.

But like she’d been starving.

Her mouth crashed into yours with desperate heat—no hesitation, no question, just claiming. Your back hit the edge of the dresser with a dull thud, knocking over a bottle of perfume, a photo frame, something fragile that shattered—but neither of you flinched.

You gasped, and she swallowed the sound, fingers sliding up the back of your neck to tangle in your hair, anchoring you like she couldn’t risk letting go. Her body pressed into yours, hard and hot and unrelenting.

You clutched her shirt, fisting the fabric, dizzy from the taste of her—citrus and sweat and something only hers.

Your hips arched instinctively, and she groaned low against your mouth, like the sound had been buried in her chest for years.

“Mikasa—” your voice cracked.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” she growled, breath ragged, lips brushing yours as she spoke.

She bit your bottom lip—just enough to sting—and you whimpered, your hands flying to her hair. You gripped it, twisted, pulled her closer. She rewarded you with another kiss, deeper this time, almost punishing, tongue sliding against yours with slow, devastating control.

You were panting, your legs shaking.

Her hand slid beneath your hoodie, fingertips grazing the skin of your waist, exploring—not rushed, but possessive. Like she was mapping you out. Marking you.

“You’re shaking,” she whispered.

“I know,” you breathed.

She kissed you again—harder. And this time, your head tipped back as her mouth moved to your jaw, your neck, biting, sucking, lips trailing fire down your skin.

“I want you,” she whispered. “Not tomorrow. Not eventually. Now.”

You dragged her mouth back to yours, biting back a moan as her knee slid between your thighs, pinning you where she wanted you—right against the dresser, right in her reach.

The drawer rattled behind you.

Your mind was foggy.

All you could feel was her.

Her breath. Her weight. Her hands. Her hunger.

She kissed you like she was drowning in you.

And maybe she was.

The room smelled like her.

Crisp sweat, warm breath, soft cotton, and something heady and feminine buried beneath the heat—your perfume, maybe. Maybe hers. It didn’t matter anymore.

The moonlight spilled across the bed in ribbons, painting you both in soft gray and silver. Your skin flushed and slick with desire. Mikasa hovered over you, one arm planted beside your head, the other sliding along your thigh—gripping it, dragging it over her hip as she settled between your legs.

She kissed like she knew your body before you did.

Her lips were swollen, jaw tense, breath shallow as she devoured you in slow, punishing kisses—lip, neck, collarbone, back up again—like she couldn’t decide which part of you she loved more.

“I—I’ve been secretly in love with you,” she whispered, dragging her mouth along your jaw, voice low and wrecked. “I love seeing you like this under me…”

You whimpered, fingers gripping the back of her shirt, still clinging to some scrap of control—but it was slipping. Her hand gripped your waist, pulling you deeper into the mattress, holding you still.

“Mikasa—”

“Yeah… say my name like that again…”

Her tongue swiped across your bottom lip before she bit it again, harder this time. Your gasp was soft, desperate, your back arching as her palm slid beneath the thin fabric of your underwear—rough calloused fingers skating across slick heat, teasing, dipping, retreating just to watch you tremble.

Your nails scratched along her back.

“Mikasa,” you whispered, nearly sobbing the word. “I want you.”

That made her groan—deep and low and raw.

Her lips slammed into yours again, needier now, sloppier, full of want. She kissed like she was trying to commit the shape of your mouth to memory. Her thigh pressed between yours, rocking once—slow, controlled. Your hips bucked helplessly against her.

“Good girl,” she breathed, dragging her mouth down to your chest. “Let me show you what it means to be mine.”

The air was thick with heat and the sound of breathing—sharp, needy, uneven. Your body arched under hers, your skin fever-warm, nerves lit like exposed wire. The sheets tangled around your legs, slipping lower with each motion of her hips pressed against yours. Mikasa’s hand gripped your thigh, spreading you open beneath her like she had the right.

And God, in that moment—she did.

Her lips ghosted over your neck, soft at first. Reverent. She kissed the spot just beneath your jaw, then again, slower, dragging her mouth down the line of your throat until you gasped.

“You don’t even know how long I’ve wanted this,” she murmured, voice husky and low against your skin. “How long I’ve imagined the way you’d fall apart for me.”

She tasted you with her mouth, then claimed you with her teeth.

A bite—not deep, but hard enough to make you moan.

Your fingers found her hair, tangling in the damp strands as she moved lower, kissing the curve of your collarbone, her hands roaming freely now—over your sides, your hips, your thighs, gripping possessively, like she was sculpting a map of your body in her palms.

She sat back on her knees to peel the hoodie off of you entirely, exposing more skin to the chilled air—and her gaze. She looked at you like you were something she’d starved for.

“Keep your eyes on me,” she whispered.

You did. You couldn’t look away.

Her hand slid under your waistband, fingertips trailing across your stomach, lower, slower, until you were writhing. She watched your face as her touch dipped beneath the fabric, parting you with two fingers—slick, warm, perfect.

You gasped her name.

“Mikasa—”

“Good girl,” she breathed, low and rough.

Her fingers teased you with calculated patience—circling, stroking, retreating just to make you beg. Your hips lifted for more, but she held you still with her thigh, pressing between yours.

“Let me hear you,” she murmured, curling her fingers just right.

You cried out, forehead pressing to hers, the knot in your stomach coiling tighter as she drove you toward it. Her pace never wavered. She owned you in that rhythm—measured, steady, devout.

Her mouth found your chest, lips wrapping around one sensitive peak while her fingers worked deeper, harder, until you were trembling under her, moaning so sweetly she groaned into your skin.

“You’re so fucking perfect like this.”

Your nails dragged down her back as you bucked beneath her, breath ragged, vision swimming. The tension snapped like a string pulled too tight.

You came with her name on your lips—high and aching and raw.

She didn’t stop. Not until she felt the aftershocks in your thighs. Not until your voice gave out.

Then she kissed you again—slow, deep, possessive.

She wiped her fingers on your inner thigh, dragged them up to your lips, and whispered—

“I don't wanna be your friend.”

You lost time between her kisses, her fingers, the rhythm of her body against yours. She didn’t stop until your legs were shaking. Until your nails left marks on her shoulder blades. Until your voice broke saying her name again and again like a prayer.

And when she finally let you rest, she pulled the sheet over your bare hips, kissed your temple, and whispered—

“I wanna be your girlfriend…”

Your heart pounded so loud it echoed in your ears.

You curled into her, breath trembling, body aching in the best way.

And in the quiet after…

Her hand never left your waist.

--

BOOMMMBYAAAHHHHH any other x reader requests? I am as open as my legs are..BING BONG

[yanderslutt]

I wanna do a yandere female x reader but idk who to write about ? 😔